


Eli

by Adolphus Longestaffe (adolphus_longestaffe)



Category: Destiny (Video Games)
Genre: Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, HEALTHY poly relationship, Homosexuality, M/M, Mentioned Cayde-6 (Destiny), Multi, Other, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, Polyamorous Character, Threesome - M/M/M, Verbal Humiliation, exo-sexuality, guardians dropping f bombs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-19
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 76,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25989031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adolphus_longestaffe/pseuds/Adolphus%20Longestaffe
Summary: If you are like me, you've also been waiting two full years for the Uldren resurrection story to be resolved, and have been disappointed again and again, when we got nothing (except some obscure lore on an exotic ship from Eververse thanks a lot, Tess). Anyway, I finally got fed up and wrote my own.NO LONGER CANON-COMPLIANT, but still super gay.This story contains frank references to male and female homosexuality and bisexuality. If you don't like it, click the back button. May contain ships not mentioned in tags.
Relationships: Male Guardian/Uldren Sov, Male Guardian/Uldren Sov/Jolyon Till the Rachis, Uldren Sov/Jolyon Till the Rachis
Comments: 13
Kudos: 47





	1. Part 1: The Hunter

Part One: The Hunter

He sits up with a start at the voice of his Ghost, alerting him that dawn will come soon. He hadn’t been sleeping, anyway. He can’t sleep. Not really. He feels ashamed of it for some reason, so he lies still and pretends, and sometimes he manages to drift in and out of a black haze. He doesn’t know if he dreams. When he shuts his eyes, there is nothing but emptiness, and a silence so profound, he hears the sound of his own heartbeat. A thick, wet, mechanical thump that makes him want to dig the thing out of his chest and fling it into a fire. He keeps this to himself.

“Good morning, Guardian,” the Ghost chimes, practically radiating cheerfulness. “It is a beautiful day.”

“The sun hasn’t risen yet, how can you know that?” His tone is bantering and the Ghost takes it in good part.

“It is not yet, but it is going to be,” he replies, adopting a sagely air. “You must trust me. We Ghosts know these things.”

“You do, do you? What about yesterday, when you said the same thing and then it rained all day?”

“Rain is just as beautiful as sunshine, and I was just as right yesterday as I am today.”

“Ah, I see. You’ve worked up a system by which you can never be proven wrong. Clever. But in truth, I prefer rain to sun anyway, so I pronounce your predictions accurate.”

In more perfect truth, he prefers the night, and even more the gentle hues of twilight, which seem to soften the edges of this ugly world and make existence more bearable. There is a contemplative stillness in those hours between dusk and dawn, that puts him in mind of…something. Some home, perhaps, that he does not remember. But his Ghost appears to believe that it is important to rise early in the morning, so he abides the daylight hours and makes no complaint.

“You do not look very well,” the Ghost says. He is hovering before his Guardian’s face, scanning it carefully with his circular lens. If he had a brow it would have furrowed with concern. “Perhaps you should rest a bit longer, before we do anything too strenuous.”

“I am perfectly well,” the Guardian replies, reaching for his helmet. “If I’m not, you can repair me.”

Once the helmet is fastened on, he sits down on the mossy turf to pull on his boots. At least, he assumes they’re his boots. He doesn’t remember a time when he was without them. He hops up and strides about, attempting to shake life back into his stiff limbs. His Ghost hovers nearby, observing him attentively, as he does pretty much every moment of every day. When he feels as awake as he ever feels in the pre-dawn chill, after sleeping on the bare ground in an abandoned cargo container, he pulls out his revolver and spins the cylinder, checking that it doesn't freeze up.

“What are we hunting today?” he asks, for the sake of breaking the silence.

“There is a group of humans moving through the area,” his Ghost answers. “They made camp last night, about five kilometers southwest of here.”

“We don’t hunt humans, Lis,” the Guardian smirks.

“No, but we may be able to trade with them.”

“Not that I don’t appreciate the thought, but I have nothing to trade.”

“I think you may,” his Ghost asserts. “They are only ordinary humans, around twenty of them, with no lightbearers among them. What they are still doing out here is a mystery to me, but they must be making for the City. They will have to cross dangerous territory before they come to it.”

“And you think I should offer them an escort.”

“Why not? You can protect them and they can give you things you need. Like food, for example.”

“They’ll think me a highwayman or a scoundrel, is why not,” the Guardian mutters. Then he looks away into the forest, wringing his gloved hands together as if in some trouble of spirit. “They will be in danger, though. Even heavily armed, twenty humans are no match for a band of Fallen scavengers.”

“They did not appear heavily armed to me. Only settlers, from the look of their gear. There are children with them.”

The Guardian shuts his eyes, taking a long breath and letting it out slowly. “Well, then. I suppose you know what we have to do.”

“Yes, but Guardian, you must find food soon or you will starve. If you plan to protect these humans anyway, why not—”

“Because I am not a mercenary, who would hold their children’s lives over their heads for a crust of bread!” the Guardian snaps, then catches himself. “I’m sorry, Lis. What I mean is, it’s my duty to keep them safe. I won’t accept anything in return. If all goes well, they’ll never even know I was there.”

“That is noble of you, but how will you eat?”

“The, uh…the universe provides,” the Guardian says with a vague gesture, as he starts off through the wood. “Come on, Lis, we have innocent people to defend!”

Late one night, when lightning flashes overhead and the shattered savior is wreathed in roiling clouds, a weary but hopeful group of travelers approach the Last City, brilliant and blazing with life. The gates are high and formidable, and the battlements glitter with laser cannons and the armor of the Titan guard. Overhead, ships bearing Guardians on errands from the Tower roar through the atmosphere and vanish among the grey thunderheads.

A klaxon sounds and the cry goes up, _Refugees incoming!_ from the lookout posts before the mighty walls. Despite the icy rain and their heavily laden backs, the travelers laugh and weep for joy, to be arrived at long last in the stronghold of humanity. There had been danger on their road, injury and fatigue, thirst and hunger and terrifying cries in the wilds at night, but they had clung to hope and to one another and pressed on, and their hope has been rewarded. None see the black-clad figure watching from the treeline, as they walk the final steps of their desperate pilgrimage.

None among them are aware that he has been one of their company since they passed the southern hills into this valley, shadowing their steps by day, and keeping watch over them through the long nights. None know of the snares he cleared from their path, nor the prowling horrors he slew silently, just outside the ring of light cast by their small fires. Nor do they see him slip away into the shadows, as the gates swing wide to welcome them home. They will never know anything of their unseen sentinel, save for a peculiar feeling now and then, that they must have had some divine protection on their journey. And they will look up at the Traveler, and say a silent prayer of thanks.

In the oppressive darkness of the densely-wooded backcountry, the normally agile and careful Guardian walks heavily, breaking twigs and struggling through underbrush. He has neither eaten nor slept in many days, now, and the Ghost is beside himself with worry. Traversing a narrow gully, he slips on an unseen root and falls. He lies still for a moment, then rolls onto his back with a groan. His Ghost flits and fusses about him as he pushes himself laboriously to a sitting position, supporting his back against a fallen tree. The rain has turned to sleet, and he is sitting in slushy mud, but he doesn’t have the energy to care.

“Guardian, there is no reason for you suffer this way,” his Ghost admonishes. “If you will not go to the City, then go to one of the Vanguard outposts. They are there for the use of all Guardians.”

“You know I can’t. They hate me.”

“How could anyone hate you? I think you are worrying too much because of a few unfriendly people.”

The Guardian shakes his head weakly. “That was not unfriendliness, Lis. Whatever I was before you raised me, my face is not a welcome one to them. It’s best I avoid their society altogether.”

“But how will we avoid them on their home world? They are everywhere.”

“We must leave, I suppose.”

“Where will we go?”

“I don’t know,” the Guardian sighs. “Maybe to seek among my own kind for an answer to the riddle of my face. They inhabit the Reef, yes? Let us go there.”

“I wish you would visit the Tower at least once, before you embark on such a journey,” the Ghost urges gently. “It is a wonder to behold.”

There is a long pause, in which the he listens anxiously to his Guardian’s rapid, shallow breathing. It would be better that he should die and be relieved, than inflict this slow agony upon himself.

“Lis,” the Guardian says at last. “Do you ever think that maybe…maybe you made a mistake, and I was never meant to be brought back?”

“Never,” the Ghost replies gravely. “The Traveler chose us for each other, Guardian. I searched for you for more than a century. When I finally found you, you were so much more than I had ever dared to hope you would be. You have the potential to be one of the greatest Guardians of all time. It would break my heart to see you give up now, before you have even started.”

“You’re so good, Lis,” the Guardian murmurs, as he lets his head drop back against the bole. “You deserve…better than me.”

Heavy flecks of what is now wet snow, more than sleet, cling to the metal surface of his helmet and melt, running in rivulets down the visor and dripping from the chin. The Ghost bobs silently before him for a long while, and when it is sure he sleeps, turns and darts away into the darkness beneath the forest canopy.

“Hey, Ghost. Look,” the Hunter whispers, training his scope on the cargo door at the back of the supply depot. “What is that?”

He is lying on his stomach in an improvised sniper nest inside a disused water tower, one side of which has conveniently rusted away. His Ghost materializes and turns his lens in the direction the rifle is pointed.

“It’s a Ghost.”

“I can see it’s a Ghost. What’s it doing?”

“It looks like he’s trying to carry something out of there. That’s strange.”

“How the—I didn’t know you guys could use your scanner beams like that!” the Hunter exclaims, still in a whisper. “You never carry anything for me.”

“I’m not a pack mule. It’s extremely difficult to focus the energy like that. I don’t know where he’s taking that container, but I hope it’s not far.”

“He must be pretty desperate for some rations. Where’s his Guardian?”

“No humanoid life forms in the immediate area.”

“I guess he’s staying out of the snow somewhere.”

“But why make a Ghost go for supplies? Why wouldn’t the Guardian just come here himself? Or herself?”

“Curiouser and curiouser,” the Hunter mutters, still observing the purple-shelled conundrum through his scope.

“I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation,” his Ghost says pragmatically. “And it really is none of our business.”

“Maybe not. Or maybe…maybe his Guardian is being held hostage somewhere, and the captors are making the Ghost bring them supplies. Then it _is_ our business. We’ll have to stage a daring rescue.”

“You think someone is holding a Guardian hostage. For a five-pound crate of rations.”

“Crazier things have happened.”

“I don’t think they have.”

“Only one way to find out. We tail the Ghost and see where he takes the stuff, and if there’s any funny business—”

“We’re going to go down and offer to help.”

“You’re no fun,” the Hunter grumbles.

“I am plenty of fun. But I’m not going to subject this Ghost to unnecessary antics just because you’re bored.”

“I’m only bored because you don’t let me do unnecessary antics.”

The Ghost makes a sound like a forebearant sigh as the Hunter swings down onto the ladder, grins up at him, then lets go and drops the hundred or so feet to the ground. His patient companion floats down after him at a less suicidal pace, then follows him through the whirling snow toward the muddy depot road, where the nocturnal adventurer has managed to haul his crate about twenty yards, in fits and starts.

“Hey, there,” the Hunter calls out, as they approach.

“Oh!” the Ghost exclaims, giving a visible jump of surprise. This causes him to drop his crate, and the contents go tumbling out all over the ground.

“Sorry about that,” the Hunter winces. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Oh, no, I was only startled. I did not expect to meet anyone here so late,” the Ghost says, as the Hunter bends down to collect the ration packets. “I can get those. You need not trouble yourself on my account.”

“He doesn’t mind,” the Hunter’s Ghost assures him. “Humans are built for that kind of work. Hands, and all that.”

“Well then, thank you very much! I am pleased to meet you both. My name is Lisianthus, but my Guardian mostly calls me Lis.”

“Mine just calls me Ghost. He’s not very creative.”

“You’re one to talk, you flying eyeball,” the man protests. “You call me Hunter like it’s my name.”

“Hunter is a perfectly good name. It just happens to also be your profession. There is nothing wrong with efficiency in naming conventions.”

“I do not mean to be impolite, but my Guardian needs me,” Lis interjects, hovering anxiously. “I really must get back to him.”

“I’ve got cargo bags on my Sparrow,” the Hunter offers. “Why don’t you let us give you a ride?”

“That is generous of you, but my Guardian is—he is very shy. He will not like to meet strangers unannounced.”

“Is he nearby? Because it’s gonna be slow going with your crate.” The Hunter gestures to the cargo bay. “It took you ten minutes just to get this far.”

Lis pivots his shell, looking back toward the outpost, then off in the direction of the river. “It did not seem a great distance on the way here, but I think you are right. Only…may I tell you something in confidence?”

“Uh,” the Hunter says.

“Of course,” his Ghost assists.

“My Guardian does not know I went to fetch him supplies. He will be displeased that I have done so, but he needs these things very badly. He lets himself starve and it is a great pain to me. If I were to bring you to him, it may make things worse.”

“But why would he do that?” Ghost asks. “There are Vanguard supply posts all over this area. He could’ve got food any time.”

“He will not go near them. I tell him that if he would only give them a chance, he will be accepted by other Guardians, but he will not listen.”

“Why does he think other Guardians won’t accept him,” the Hunter frowns.

“We encountered a few who were quite unfriendly. More than a few, in fact. And some who were downright cruel. It wounded him deeply and now he hides himself from them at any cost.”

“Wow, what a bunch of pricks. I thought Guardians stopped acting like street gangs back when the Iron Lords took over.”

“Well, we’re friendly,” Ghost says resolutely. “And we’re going to help you two, whether he likes it or not. Because that’s what Guardians do. Isn’t that right, Hunter?”

“You’re the boss. I just shoot what you point me at.”

Not intending to allow Lis any time for more wavering, Ghost immediately summons the Hunter’s Sparrow, an older combat model, built more for durability than aesthetic appeal. Lis looks on uneasily as the Hunter stows his precious supplies inside a large, all-weather pouch attached to the side of the contraption, then swings his leg over the saddle and switches on the pulse drive.

“Helmet, Hunter,” Ghost admonishes. “Safety first.”

“Safety,” the Hunter snorts. “If I crash this thing, a helmet’s not gonna stop my entire body from getting vaporized in the explosion.”

“And if you don’t wear your helmet, I can’t put the terrain overlay on your display, and you will definitely crash and get vaporized. And ruin all of our friend’s supplies into the bargain.”

“I was gonna wear it, I was just saying,” the Hunter retorts, as he pulls on the headgear in question. “Ok List, you’re navigator. Whenever you’re ready.”

“Lis.”

“What?”

“His name is Lis, not list.”

“Ah. I thought it was a weird name.”

“You thought—were you paying attention when he introduced himself? You know what, never mind. Just drive.”

As it turns out, this particular Hunter also happens to be a skilled tracker, with eyes made keen by long watching in dark places, and he has no trouble rapidly weaving his way through the unpredictable terrain. He even makes note of some things Lis had not, such as the trail made by a Red Legion patrol, leading down from the hills and disappearing in a copse on the far side of the road. He hopes they haven’t happened upon this nice little Ghost’s Guardian.

When they arrive at the specified coordinates in the gully, Lis’ Guardian is seated on the ground with his back against the fallen tree, exactly as he left him. There is a thin coat of ice on his helmet visor, and the muddy water has frozen around his trousers and boots. The Hunter hops off the Sparrow, tossing his helmet to his Ghost as he hurries over to kneel beside the man.

“He’s not breathing,” he says, laying a hand on his stomach, then putting two fingers on his neck, just under the jaw of his helmet. “No pulse, either.”

Before Lis can think to object, he unfastens the Guardian’s helmet, and cradling the back of his neck with one hand, pulls it off with the other. The instant the helmet is off, he drops it and leaps back with a sharp gasp, as if a live serpent were inside it and has struck at him.

“What’s wrong?” his Ghost asks, floating over to inspect the Guardian. Then he too stops, seeming to be frozen in horror. “This…can’t be. It’s not possible. Is it…? Hunter?”

The Hunter doesn’t answer, or even look up. He remains crouched where he is, staring fixedly at the Guardian’s face, as if it is some image from a nightmare that has entered the material world to torment his waking hours.

Lis floats quietly nearby, observing them with a heavy heart. His Guardian has been right all along. They will all despise and reject him, and his new life will be one of misery and isolation, rather than warm, familiar cheer in the company of his own kind.

“Hunter,” Ghost prompts, after another moment. “What are we going to do?”

“Please, do not do anything,” Lis says, bravely placing his little flower-shaped shell between the Hunter and his Guardian. “Only let us go and do not speak of him to others. I will take him far away from here. He will not trouble anyone.”

“No one else can know,” the Hunter says to his Ghost, as if he has not even heard Lis speak.

“But, Commander Zavala—”

“No. Not yet. Not until I know who we can trust.” He looks up pleadingly at his Ghost. “You understand, don’t you?”

“I do. Of course I do. But you can’t do this on your own.”

“I do _not_ understand,” Lis interposes. “And you are speaking of my Guardian as if I am not here. I find it quite distressing.”

“We’re sorry, Lis,” Ghost says. “We’re both a bit in shock. My Guardian knew this man. Before he died.”

Lis looks at the Hunter. “You were his friend?”

“No. But I will be, if he’ll let me. He’s going to need one.”

“Things will be complicated for him, because of who he was,” Ghost explains. “We want to help him, but you’ll to have to trust us.”

Lis gazes at his Guardian’s beautiful face, cold and still and wax-white. He loves this man with his whole, tiny being. He would go through hellfire for him—do anything in his power to help him. Even if that means, he decides, doing what is best for him instead of what he thinks he wants. Letting him give in to his sorrow and turn away from the Light would not be friendship, it would be cowardice.

“I will not ask who he was,” he says at last. “I only ask that you not tell him, if you can avoid doing so without putting him in danger.”

“We won’t be able to hide it from him forever,” the Hunter says. “But I agree that it wouldn’t be wise to lay that kind of burden on him now. We do need to get him out of the woods and somewhere safe, though. As soon as possible.”

“There is nowhere safer than the Tower. But he will not go.”

“That’s what I was going to suggest, so I’m glad we’re of the same opinion. We’ll just have to convince him.”

“If we’re taking him to the Tower, we’re going to need help within the Vanguard,” Ghost puts in. “Someone who won’t be biased against him.”

“We both know who that is,” the Hunter says, looking up at him. Then he turns to Lis. “We should be out of sight before you get him up. We don’t want to scare him off. Let him know we brought the supplies and that we’ll be back, but don’t let him bolt.”

“I will do my best, but if he makes up his mind to go, I will not be able to stop him.”

“It won’t come to that. I believe in you. Let me get his helmet back on, and Ghost and I will take off.”

If Lis had doubts about this man’s sincerity, they are allayed somewhat when he watches him gently smooth his Guardian’s hair back from his forehead, before he carefully fits on his helmet. The look in his eyes as he does this is one of such profound grief, that he immediately rises several levels in the devoted Ghost’s esteem. With a promise to be back soon, his two new allies in the fight to bring his Guardian into the fold hop on the Sparrow and speed away into the forest. He waits a few minutes, then taps into his Light and in the blink of an eye, his dead Guardian lives again.

“Thank you, Lis,” he says, standing up to brush the mud and ice from his clothes. “How did I die?”

“You are welcome, Guardian. I imagine it was starvation and dehydration, coupled with fatigue and exposure.”

“Well, I feel much better, now. I suppose that’s the magic of resurrection.”

“Yes, that is one of the effects,” Lis replies awkwardly. “The disadvantage being that you must die to benefit from it.”

The Guardian cocks his head to the side. “You’re behaving strangely. Something’s happened. Or there’s something you want to tell me.”

“You are very perceptive, Guardian,” Lis answers, with his best attempt at cheerfulness. “I do have something to tell you, and it is good news. It seems that we have a friend.”

“A friend,” the Guardian repeats slowly. “That can’t be so, Lis. I don’t know anyone.”

“You do not have to know someone to become friends. That is why it is called making friends.”

“I see. And who is this friend?”

“Another Hunter, like you. He and his Ghost helped me—”

“You went to other Guardians for help while I was dead? Do they know where I am?”

“Please listen, Guardian. I did not know you had died till I returned. I went to an outpost to get you some food, but I meant to do it on my own. As I was carrying the things away, this other Hunter and his Ghost appeared and greeted me. I said I did not need help, but they insisted.”

“So, they know where I am and they have seen me,” the Guardian says, looking about as if he expects them to spring out of the shadows. “Hopefully they won’t come back this way. We can get to the ship in a day or so and then we will leave this place for good.”

“No.”

The Guardian arrests his agitated movement and wheels around slowly to face his Ghost. “What do you mean, no?”

Lis stands his ground (meaning that he floats exactly where he is, but more intensely) and looks his Guardian’s helmet in the face.

“I mean no,” he says firmly. “If you want to keep running away, there is nothing I can do to stop you. But I…I will not go with you.”

“You don’t mean that. You can’t leave me, Lis, I need you.”

“I will not be the one leaving, Guardian.”

“Don’t say that,” the Guardian pleads, his voice wavering with sudden emotion. “I would never go without you. Of course I’ll stay, if it means that much to you. I’ll even meet this Hunter.”

“It only means so much to me because of you,” Lis says gently, floating up close to his face. “You are so terribly alone.”

“I am not alone. I have you.”

“You need the company of other Guardians. Other people. They can help you in ways I cannot.”

“There is nothing I need that—”

Their conversation is interrupted by the intentional snapping of a twig underfoot, followed immediately by the appearance of a tall, drab-clad male figure. His pilot’s style helmet has a filter-respirator and black lenses, and his cloak looks as if it has been cut from salvaged camouflage netting. The Guardian stares at him in disbelief, as he walks boldly up to them as if he’s been expected.

“Hey, Lis. So…I forgot to actually hand you the supplies when we left you here.” He holds the crate out to the Guardian, who accepts it, being too bewildered to know what else to do. “Sorry. They got a little banged around. Hi. I’m Hunter and this is Ghost.”

“How are you feeling?” the Hunter’s Ghost asks, whirring over to scan him.

“I am…well,” he falters. “Who are you, again?”

“Hunter and Ghost,” the Hunter repeats, as if these are perfectly normal names. “We met Lis at the supply depot a little while ago and helped him bring this stuff. Or, we meant to. Somehow we dropped the Ghost and not the cargo.”

“I see,” the Guardian says stiffly. “Thank you for your help. Please, don’t let us keep you from…whatever it is you’re doing.”

“We’re not really doing anything. It’s starting to snow again, though. I know a place, if you want to get out of the cold a while.”

“Oh…no. I couldn’t impose.”

“Sure you can. It’s just an old warehouse by the quarry. We can light a fire and eat some of that food.”

“I really can’t,” the Guardian maintains. “I happen to be—very busy, at the moment.”

“Are you?” the Hunter says doubtfully. “It’s like four in the morning.”

“Well. Not at this _exact_ moment. But I have no Sparrow and the quarry is quite a distance from here.”

“No problem. Mine’s definitely big enough to carry two. Right, Ghost?”

“Uh, yes! Yes, it is,” Ghost confirms, sounding anything but confident.

The Guardian looks to Lis for assistance, but he is gazing blithely off into space, pretending not to hear any of what is passing. Then he is aware the battle is lost. The crate of provisions goes back in the cargo bag, the Hunter gets on the Sparrow, and the Guardian finds himself seated behind him, gingerly holding his waist.

“Little lower,” the Hunter instructs, taking his gloved hands and moving them down. “If you hold onto me too high up, our center of gravity gets thrown off and we could spin out. And don’t let go. This thing is fast.”

If the Guardian had any inclination to disregard this advice, it vanishes the instant the Sparrow takes off, and he finds himself clinging to the Hunter for dear life, as the blur of terrain flashes past. After the third or fourth time they seem to avoid careening off a tree or boulder by the power of divine intervention alone, he has had enough and keeps his eyes tightly shut for the remainder of the ride.

Ten or fifteen agonizing minutes of this ordeal pass, and the Sparrow glides mercifully to a halt at the intended objective. The Guardian stumbles, as he dismounts the vehicle and his feet struggle to find purchase on the swaying ground. The Hunter supports him, telling him to take a few deep breaths to ward off the fit of dizziness. When he's satisfied the Guardian isn't going to topple over and pitch face first into the mud, they follow the Ghosts toward the remains of the ancient warehouse.

The structure stands on a tree-covered slope above the waterlogged quarry, far off the beaten path. It is almost entirely enshrouded by vines and moss, and its doorways yawn black and foreboding, giving it an unsettlingly funereal character. Once they are inside, however, and the Hunter has cracked a few light sticks, the place seems less like a potential murder scene and more like a welcome respite from the snow, which is now coming down in thick drifts.

The roof is mostly intact, miraculously, with only a few missing panels, over which the ivy has woven a natural canopy. All the glass has long been smashed out of the windows, but they are small and well above the ground level, and make little difference. The place’s position on the high ground in the area, as well as its concealment by the landscape, actually make it quite a viable lookout spot. The Guardian is impressed and says so.

“Thanks, I like it,” the Hunter replies. “Ghost and I come here a lot. Mostly because I can make a fire without attracting too much attention.”

He has carried an armload of wood over from somewhere on the far end of the warehouse, which he drops beside a rectangular depression in the floor. The bricks have been pulled away, here, to create what must be a makeshift firepit, judging from the ashes and remnants of coals inside.

“Where did you find dry wood?” the Guardian asks.

“I always try to keep some here, in case I need a place to crash on short notice.”

“Crash?”

“It’s old Earth slang. It just means rest.”

The Guardian watches him put the sticks and twigs in a little stack in the center of the shallow pit, then arrange the thicker branches into a cone around them. This task complete, the Hunter holds out his gloved hand. What can only be described as a knife made of fire blazes to life out of thin air, and he casually drops it into the kindling, setting it alight.

Meanwhile, the Ghosts have cleared the space around the improvised fire pit of dirt and leaves, and are pulling various ration options out of the crate. They are all square, silver, vacuum-sealed pouches of identical size, but they have color-coded labels denoting the contents.

“What do we have?” the Hunter asks, crouching to examine them. “Lentil stew with ham. Yuck, no thanks. Beef strips in sauce? What could that even mean? Ooh, vegetable lasagna. I’ll take that. Hey, Guardian—what’s your name?”

“It’s, uh…it’s Eli,” the Guardian who is apparently called Eli answers, not as clumsily as possible, but close to it.

“What do you feel like rolling the dice on, Eli? There’s more variety with the beef, but the smart money’s on the chicken.”

“You chose one with neither. Wouldn’t the smart money be there?”

“I don’t eat meat I didn’t kill, if I can avoid it. It’s late and it’s dumping snow, though, so no hunting. Better to eat what we’ve got and get some rest.”

“I’m not…feeling very well,” Eli the Guardian says. “You go ahead.”

The Hunter eyes him with his mask’s lenses, affecting suspicion. “I’ve never heard of a Hunter turning down a meal. Maybe you were supposed to be a Warlock.”

“You really must eat, Guardian,” Lis puts in. “You were starving to death a few hours ago. There is nothing in your system to sustain you.”

Eli, who is in no way used to thinking of himself by this name, sits down before the merrily crackling fire and unfastens his cloak, to buy a moment for consideration. He decides it’s best to get this over with now and take the bitter pill as it comes. At least this Hunter will leave him alone, then, and he can convince Lis to go with him to the Reef. He removes his helmet with as casual an air as he can manage, but he can’t help casting a sidelong glance at his companion. The Hunter’s helmet is still on, however, and he is busily poking the fire with a long stick, so there is no reaction to observe.

Relieved for the time-being, Eli takes the first ration pack his hand falls on, which is something vaguely labeled “Chicken with Noodles”, and sets about opening it and inspecting the contents. There is a large, mushy pouch, a smaller, harder pouch, a tube of some kind of gelatinous substance, and a plastic fork-spoon thing. Lis shows him how to tear the larger pouch across the top and hands him the fork-spoon. The aroma is not promising.

Steeling his courage, he scoops a bite into his mouth, nearly gags, then manages to choke down the bland, pasty goop. Once he has swallowed it, however, the needs of his calorie-deprived body take over, and he has less trouble with the next few. He opens the harder packet and finds that it is a stiff plank of breadlike material. Lis suggests he squeeze the gelatinous stuff on it, which he does.

Despite its oddly artificial red color, he is pleasantly surprised to find that it tastes quite a bit like genuine fruit, and makes the bread impostor far more palatable. He finishes this, then reluctantly returns to the chicken-noodle paste, still feeling his body’s intense demand for nutrients. He has been engrossed in this process, and doesn’t notice the Hunter has taken off his helmet till he happens to glance over at him again.

He is eating his vegetable-lasagna paste and keeping his eyes studiously focused on the fire, or the snow outside the door, or some point of interest on the ceiling, or anything else, it seems, that is not the Guardian. This is fine with said Guardian, as he prefers not to be looked at anyway, and it affords him a chance to surreptitiously study the man’s face in the light of the fire.

He appears physically to be in whatever the prime of human adulthood is. His close-cropped hair is silver-white, but his pink, human skin is ruddy and smooth, and there are few signs of age about him. Only very fine creases at the corners of his eyes. His jaw is squared nicely and bears a slight dusting of salt-and-pepper stubble, and he has a strong brow and straight nose. His features are too plain to be considered particularly handsome, but he does have beautifully shaped grey-green eyes.

The Guardian, who is getting slightly more comfortable with the idea of being called Eli, begins to wonder what the Hunter would say about _his_ face, then it strikes him like a thunderclap that he has never seen it. He has never seen his own face. His stomach turns and he sets down the packet and fork-spoon thing.

The Hunter does look at him then, and his brow knits. “Are you ok? You look sick.”

“It’s nothing. Just…this food is abominable.”

“I know, right?” the Hunter laughs. “That’s why I like to get my own.”

“What do you hunt, here?”

“There are rabbits and pheasants and waterfowl. Some deer, but they’re few and far between, and I don’t want to kill more than I can eat, so I stick to small game.”

Eli’s interest in the local hunting is lost in a wave of exhaustion, that washes over him and submerges all other concerns beneath the one imperative. His eyes droop, and he has to cover his mouth to stifle a jaw-splitting yawn.

“We should turn in soon,” the Hunter observes. “You must be pretty tired.”

“I am,” Eli sighs. “I’m tired in my bones and in my…soul, if that even makes sense.”

“It does to me. I was resurrected with no memory in a world I didn’t understand, too. Only, I had it a lot easier than you. I went right to the Tower. I didn’t spend months alone in the wilderness.”

“How do you know that’s what I did?”

“I’m a Hunter, too. I know what living outdoors looks like.”

Eli shrinks into himself, suddenly painfully self-conscious. “This is what I woke up in. It’s all I have.”

“Don’t let it bother you too much. Before you know it, you’ll have more gear than you can handle.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ll see, once you come to the Tower and get yourself set up with the Vanguard. People can’t seem to stop throwing new weapons and armor at Guardians. It’s actually ridiculous. I sell or trade ninety percent of what I get and I’m still ass-deep in guns.”

“In what sized space?” his Ghost pipes up, for the first time since they began their meal.

“What?” the Hunter asks, squinting at him.

“I mean,” Ghost says, speaking slowly, “what would the area of the space in which you put the guns have to be, for them to reach a depth that comes up to your hindquarters?”

“Listen here, Servitor junior, you—” the Hunter breaks off and blinks thoughtfully. “Actually, that’s interesting. How many do I have?”

Ghost’s light flickers briefly. “Three hundred and twenty-one.”

“Wow. That’s embarrassing. Guess I need to clean out the ol’ vault again.”

“Oh? I wasn’t aware that you’d ever cleaned it out.”

“Alright, enough sass from you. Help Lis scan the perimeter while we set up our bags. Eli, you have a sleeping bag, right?” Eli shakes his head drowsily. “Hm. I guess we can lay mine out flat and wrap up in our cloaks. Not like we’re gonna freeze to death, or anything.”

“We…what?” Eli asks through another yawn.

“Don’t worry about it, sleeping beauty,” the Hunter chuckles, as he hops to his feet.

Sleeping beauty…sleeping bags…Eli’s exhausted brain tries to make sense of its own conflation between beauty and bags, but the fire keeps distracting him by going unfocused and refocused in his vision. He feels suddenly as if the the whole world has turned blurry and bewildering on purpose, just to confuse him, which makes him want to weep.

Then the Hunter is taking him by the arm and he’s being made to lie on a soft thing that’s too thin to make the ground any less hard, and his cloak is being spread out over him. He is vaguely aware of a warm body lying back-to-back beside him, and the Hunter saying something to the Ghosts about not letting the fire smoke, then he is dead to the world. Deep in sleep this time, as Lis sneaks over to make absolutely sure of, not actually dead.

“Jumpship has sufficient fuel and all systems are operational, Guardian,” Lis says brightly. “Are you ready?”

His Guardian answers with a heavy sigh. “I suppose I must be.”

“It is truly wonderful, you will see. The City is so big and happy and full of life, with the Tower to watch over everything—and the Traveler! You have never seen the Traveler up close before! There is nothing more awe-inspiring, in my opinion.”

The Guardian (who has to keep reminding himself he is called Eli, now) climbs into the cockpit and straps himself in, as Lis continues to expatiate upon the many wonders and virtues of the Tower and the Last City. Despite the cold, sick knot in the pit of his stomach, he can’t help but smile. The prospect of the Tower makes his little friend so happy. He feels a pang of guilt for making him wait so long. And for the fact that he would be waiting still, had that Hunter not happened upon them and shown them kindness.

This morning, over a breakfast of more of those awful rations, the Hunter and Ghost had told them that there was an urgent call for all Guardians to report the Tower, as soon as possible. They said it was enacted months ago, but it should still be heeded, because there is an ongoing state of emergency. They seemed to expect Eli would come, as a matter of course.

He had stalled and vacillated, then cautiously relented, after the Hunter’s Ghost assured him that no one at the Tower need ever see his face, if he did not wish it. In fact, there was some apparently prominent individual, with a ridiculous name, who had not removed his helmet in the presence of another Guardian for at least two centuries.

Once agreed, he thought it better to get the whole thing underway sooner rather than later, so he allowed the Hunter to bring him by Sparrow to his ship, saving him at least a day’s journey. Before they parted, his new friend had promised to meet him at the Tower and help him get his bearings. He’d also repeated his assurance about the helmet, seeming to place particular emphasis on it.

Fortified by the knowledge that at least he will have one ally among the Guardians, and the fact that he cannot not bear to disappoint his dear little Ghost, he and Lis set off aboard his jumpship, bound for the Tower and whatever fate lies in store for them there.

They do not have to wait long to find out. The journey that had been very long on foot is very short by jumpship, and they don’t even leave the atmosphere to make it. Almost as soon as they take off, they are already plunging back down toward the green world. The ship bucks and shudders through a gigantic canopy of rolling, grey clouds, then the sweeping vista of the Last City opens before his eyes.

It is truly breathtaking from this altitude. It is vast and varied in scheme and architecture, from the sprawling expanses of lush greenery, with their perfectly circular crater lakes, to the denser areas where tall, rectangular buildings are packed neatly together in uniform rows. The streets below them are veritable rainbows of lights, and skiffs and shuttles and every other type of small vessel swarm all about like fireflies.

The massive shield walls, which he has only seen from the outside, rise hundreds of meters above the tallest buildings and enclose the entire perimeter, extending so far they fade from view over the horizon. Like a soaring mast atop the walls, the spire of the Tower pierces the sky. But far exceeding even the Olympian height of the Tower, so as to reduce its grandeur to utter absurdity, the sleeping savior looms over all, magnificent in its silent vigil.

“A gentle kingdom, ringed in spears,” Eli murmurs to himself.

To his surprise and alarm, a woman’s voice erupts from the comms at that exact moment, as if in response.

“Hey there, Guardian!” she says affably. “I’m Amanda Holliday and I’ll be overseeing your landing this afternoon.”

“Hello, Ms. Holliday,” Lis replies, in the same familiar tone. “I am sending the ship’s data now.”

“Thank you kindly, little—wait a sec, Pulled Pork, is that you?”

“It is, Ms. Holliday. Thank you for remembering me. I am called Lisianthus, now, but my Guardian mostly calls me Lis.”

“Well ain’t that something,” she laughs. “You finally found your Guardian! Congratulations!”

“Thank you, Ms. Holliday. I am very happy.”

“And I’m happy for you! I’m just waiting on the system to get its ducks in a row, since it’s your Guardian’s first time at the—oop, here we go. You’re all registered and ready to dock. Landing pad three. Make sure you come and see me when you get in!”

“I will, Ms. Holliday. Thank you again.”

Eli sits listening, dumbfounded by this interchange. He had no idea his Ghost was already on friendly terms with these people. The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach intensifies, as Lis takes the helm and steers the ship in a lazy arc toward the hangar.

Once they are within range, the docking beam guides the ship into an open bay, where a red and white mech is waving them in (for no apparent reason, since the process is automatic). Eli is vaguely aware of Lis saying “standby for transmat,” then his body is torn into shimmering bits of transmittable energy and instantly reassembled on the solid concrete floor of the hangar.

He stands dazed, attempting to parse the sudden flood of sensory input. People are talking, shouting, running about, but it is not exactly chaos. There is an organized flow to it, as if they are all performing different functions toward a common goal. Some are working away at various mechanical tasks, some are carrying crates of supplies to and fro, some are standing in groups being addressed by superiors, and others are lining up to board transport ships.

He realizes his Ghost has been leading him somewhere when he is startled from his reverie by a boisterous greeting. He recognizes the voice as belonging to the same Ms. Holliday who hailed them over the ship’s comms. He only nods in return to whatever she said, which she seems to find perfectly normal, and he is allowed to stand silently by as she converses enthusiastically with his Ghost.

She is small. Much smaller than her powerful voice would suggest. She has short, wiry, yellow hair, which he would find distasteful, but that it seems to suit her. Her face is bright and youthful, with a small nose and a mouth that looks as if it smiles easily and frequently. She is overall a bit too thin, but she looks strong, and the tattooed sleeve on her right arm is clearly the mark of a warrior.

“…so good to catch up with you, honey,” she is saying to Lis. “Come back and see me after you talk to the big guy. I’ll fit your Guardian up with a Sparrow.”

“I will, Ms. Holliday. Thank you again,” Lis replies, leading his silent Guardian away on their next errand. “Are you alright, Guardian? You have been very quiet.”

“I’m alright, Lis. Just confused. Why does Ms. Holliday want to give me a Sparrow? And who is this ‘big guy’ she mentioned?”

“All Guardians are issued a standard Sparrow upon arrival. The leader of the Vanguard, Commander Zavala, is who most people here mean when they say ‘the big guy,’ though Lord Shaxx is much bigger.”

“Lord doesn’t outrank Commander?”

“Lord Shaxx was an Iron Lord. They retired from leadership long ago. Commander Zavala holds the foremost position of authority, since the Speaker was lost. He is also the Titan Vanguard, but there is no longer a Hunter Vanguard, so we will be expected to report to him.”

“Do the Vanguard lose high-ranking people often?”

“No, not often. The Speaker was slain by the tyrant Dominus Ghaul, who attempted to take the Traveler’s light by force, and was consumed in fire for his avarice.”

“The Hunter Vanguard was killed in the Red War, as well?”

“No, but I do not know what happened to him. Word that he had met his final death reached me when I was far away searching for you, and there was nothing else but rumors. Some said that he was murdered by the Awoken prince, but that does not make sense to me. The Awoken of the Reef are our allies.”

“Maybe he offended the prince,” Eli offers. “Royalty have been known to exact heavy retribution for personal slights. Particularly if it was a matter of honor, and the prince is very young.”

“That does not seem likely,” Lis muses, as they make their way up a flight of stairs. “The prince is not young, even by Awoken reckoning. I suppose our friend the Hunter will know the truth of the matter. This is the Courtyard.”

They have just emerged from the stairwell and entered a wide thoroughfare, that seems to be the main hub of activity in the Tower. In some areas, huge panels of crimson and gold fabric have been stretched across poles to create shade, which adds color and interest to the scene, as they billow and flutter in the wind. Otherwise, the place is roofless and open-air, with metal safety rails and stripes of orange paint on the ground to indicate hazardous areas. Eli takes a deep breath and attempts to calm his nerves, but his hands are shaking. There are Guardians literally everywhere.

They are a perplexing sight to behold. Unlike the ordinary humans, who are all uniformed or otherwise sensibly clothed, the Guardians appear to follow no standard of dress. They are a riot of richly tinted silks, furs, and leathers, armor of gleaming silver and gold, horned helmets, masks that glow with parti-colored lights, and every other imaginable adornment. Their weapons are as varied and unique as their armor. To Eli’s surprise, there are as many hunting bows and steel-bladed swords as there are advanced-tech firearms, and all are displayed proudly.

As he takes in the mayhem of finery, he also makes note of their movements, hoping to get a general sense of what one normally does while in the Tower. Some are standing alone, with their Ghosts hovering before them, staring blankly into the middle distance. Some are walking about in groups, chatting and laughing. Some are amusing one another with various colorful objects, apparently produced by personal hard-light generators. Try as he might, he can’t detect any pattern to their behavior. They don’t appear to be doing…anything.

“Commander Zavala is usually over there, past the post office and the Eververse storefront,” Lis says, pointing with his scanning beam. “Across the way is the Master Cryptarch, Rahool, and the weaponsmith Banshee-44. Lord Shaxx is around the corner there, but we will not need to speak with him yet. He is the Crucible handler.”

“Crucible?”

“It is a tournament in which Guardians test their strength against one another. When Lord Saladin visits, he officiates the—oh, we are in luck. The Commander is there, and he does not appear to be occupied. We should go to him now.”

Eli casts his eyes about, hoping to find his Hunter friend among the fray, but he is nowhere to be seen. Despite his intense apprehension, he follows his little companion obediently through crowd, attempting to make himself as invisible as he can without actually calling on the Void.

“She is amazing, isn’t she?” Lis says softly, turning his lens upward.

They are coming to the end of the Courtyard that juts out above the City, and as Eli follows his gaze, it suddenly strikes him that he is essentially face to face with the Traveler. The sheer magnitude of the thing staggers him, and he has to put a hand on the railing to steady himself.

“She is,” he murmurs, immediately adopting the strong, female pronoun his Ghost has used, and which seems so fitting now, in her mighty presence. “I…I have never seen anything like her.”

Lis allows him a moment for respectful observance, and to regain his composure, before they continue on to meet the Vanguard Commander.

In person, the ‘big guy’ is more lean than hulking. He wears no helmet, but he is tall and looks every bit the Titan in every detail, from his bearing, to his voice, to his shining armor. He has the violet-blue Awoken complexion, and his eyes are an intense, glowing azure. Most striking about him is a kind of ageless dignity and aura of command that seem to radiate from him, as though he were born to be a leader of men, and bears the responsibility with native grace.

“Good afternoon, Commander Zavala,” Lis chirps, in greeting. “This is my Guardian, Eli. He is new to the Light, and this is his first visit to the Tower.”

“Ah, yes. Ms. Holliday told me to expect you. Welcome, Guardian,” the Commander says with a nod, to which Eli returns a courteous half-bow. “You’ve arrived at a crucial time for the Vanguard, and for all of humanity. I’m glad you’ve chosen to join us. We need every bit of help we can get.”

Not having any idea what to say, Eli remains silent, which seems to please Commander Zavala.

“No doubt your Ghost has made you aware of the basic structure of our organization and what we do, so I won’t bore you with repetition. Regarding official Vanguard business, compensation is only offered on a per-mission basis, but we provide room and board in the Tower, and hard work is well rewarded. You are also free to take on any private contracts you wish, so long as they do not directly conflict with the principles or goals of the Vanguard. Understood?”

Eli dips his chin in response, which also seems to please the Commander.

“Excellent. Since we are without a Hunter Vanguard for the time-being, I will be your point of contact here at the Tower. Of course, you won’t be expected to understand everything right out of the gate. You’ll be assigned a Hunter mentor who you will accompany on missions until you’re ready to undertake solo work. Do you have any questions for me?”

“No, sir,” Eli answers aloud, feeling instinctively that a silent response at this point would be discourteous.

“Very good. By now, your Ghost should have received your quarters assignment and your briefing packet. I suggest you take time to familiarize yourself with the material. He can answer any questions you have and assist you in getting settled, and your mentor should be along shortly. As soon as I can get my hands on one of them, that is.”

This last bit is spoken in a tone of irritation that has such a fatherly character to it, Eli can’t help but smile behind his mask.

“Eli, Lis, there you are!” a voice calls out behind them, just then.

“Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” the Commander mutters.

Eli turns to see the Hunter approaching, but this Hunter is so different to the one he met in the forest, mud-spattered and travel stained, seated on the ground by their campfire, that he is only certain it is the same man because he recognizes his Ghost’s mirror-ball shell. His drab woodland gear is gone, replaced by much finer, sleeker apparel, and he even looks taller, somehow.

He is clad in black from head to toe, save for accents of metallic crimson on his mask and on his clothing, where there are buckles and fasteners. His close-fitting armor appears to be almost entirely made of leather, but for the upper part of the chest plate, which is black-toned polymer or metal, and the cloak, which is some heavy, fine-spun fabric of visibly excellent quality. His exceptional attire makes Eli all the more keenly conscious of his own dirty, wayworn appearance.

“Hey, Commander, how’s it going,” the Hunter says, as he strides up to meet them.

“Good afternoon, Hunter,” the Commander replies briskly. “It is going as well as it can be. Since you are here, and you have interrupted my conversation with this new Guardian, perhaps you will not mind showing him around until I find a mentor for him.”

“Perfect! I was just coming to talk to you about that very thing. I’d like to be his mentor, if there are no objections.”

Commander Zavala eyes him warily. “There are none I can think of, except that you seem very eager to accept this additional responsibility. What is your interest in this Guardian?”

“We met outside the City yesterday and really hit it off,” the Hunter answers, placing a hand on Eli’s shoulder in a companionable manner. “I asked if he’d thought about joining the Vanguard and he agreed to come see what we’re all about, on the condition that I’d be the one showing him.”

“I see. Would this arrangement be acceptable to you?” the Commander asks Eli, who nods his assent. “Very well, then. Hunter, you are officially responsible for this Guardian’s training. Welcome to the Vanguard, Eli. We’re glad to have you.”

“Thank you, sir,” Eli says stiffly.

“Thanks, Commander. See you later,” the Hunter says, guiding Eli deftly away into the bustle of the Courtyard. “Hey, sorry about that. I meant to find you before you went to Zavala. Everything go ok?”

“I think so. I didn’t know what to say to him, but he seemed happy to do the talking.”

“Yeah, that’s his way. If I had to greet every new Guardian that showed up here for the last couple centuries I’d want to stick to the script and move things along, too.”

“Centuries…how many of you are there?”

“Not sure. Half a million or so currently active, maybe? We’re going across the bridge through the arch over there. That’s the stairwell to the Bazaar and the elevators to the Guardian quarters.”

Relieved to let himself be led, Eli follows the Hunter, moving numbly through the colorful confusion that is the Bazaar, without seeing much of it. In this bustle of life and cheer, he feels singularly and entirely alone. He is almost homesick for his rusted freight container and the cold, hard ground. But the silence. The silence and the solitary darkness. He shudders and pushes the thought from his mind.

At the far end of the Bazaar, they board a large lift with double doors bearing the Vanguard emblem, and which requires activation by the Hunter’s Ghost. This lift carries them down and deposits them in a labyrinth of identical hallways, that appear to Eli to have been designed with the express purpose of ensnaring the unwary forever in their incomprehensible contortions.

Miraculously, they manage to arrive at a specific metal door, which looks exactly like the seven other metal doors in this hallway, but bears the combination of numbers and letters his Ghost has been given. Lis scans the black plate situated where a keyhole would normally be, and the door slides open with a welcoming chime.

There is nearly nothing inside. A narrow bed, a metal desk and chair, and a door to what must be the bathroom. The window is small and the walls are bare. Eli finds he rather likes the austere simplicity of it.

“It’s not much, but it’s got four walls and a roof,” the Hunter says, leaning against the doorframe. “And a private bathroom, which is a definite plus. The place they stuck me in when I showed up was more of a barracks situation.”

“Do you live at the Tower?” Eli asks distractedly, as he drops his pack on the bed and looks about.

“Nah, I got a place in the City. Most of us move out of here once we get established, to open up room for new Guardians. Something wrong?”

“No. I just…don’t know what to I’m meant to be doing. This is all a little overwhelming.”

“That’s why you have a mentor. How about I show you around, then we can grab some dinner and go over your briefing materials. I know all the stuff you can skip.”

Eli nods. “Yes, please. Thank you.”

The Hunter leads him back out of the labyrinth of lost souls and proceeds to give him what he calls ‘the grand tour,’ which mostly includes things Lis has already shown him, with the addition of a sublevel area called the Annex, that has its own small cargo dock and an odd assortment of chambers, used for storage or converted into makeshift vendor areas.

Here, he is introduced to an exquisitely beautiful exo woman named Ada-1, who appears to be presiding over some sort of temple to firearms, and whose greeting is coldly courteous. Someone called Drifter is apparently usually present as well, but is not there when they visit the cluttered room from which he conducts…whatever business he conducts. Eli is not sure what that could be.

The sun has just set when they make their way back to the Bazaar, where the Hunter intends to procure their supper. Eli is silent for the most part, content to let the Hunter and the two Ghosts carry on the conversation. He is partially aware of being surrounded by the sights and sounds of the Bazaar, but he experiences them like vivid watercolors, moving in a whirl all about him, ethereal and indistinct.

Yesterday, he was a homeless, friendless outcast with nothing. Now he has a place to sleep, a job to do, and this Hunter has essentially declared himself to be his friend, whether he wills it or no. He feels tumbled about and buffeted by the startling rapidity with which things have changed. Lis seems to find nothing strange about any of it, but he cannot shake a growing sense of heaviness, as if he is being drawn into something from which there will be no escape.

His train of thought is abruptly derailed by the most delicious aroma he has ever smelled, assaulting his nostrils with a barrage of spices and salt and fat and who knows what else, even through his helmet’s respirator.

The place they have stopped is clearly some manner of dining establishment, though the hard-light sign depicting a bowl topped with blue flames gives him no information. There is a large, framed photograph of an exo man with a blue face displayed in a prominent position behind the counter, but there is no menu to be seen. A woman is handing out round containers and smiling and chatting with the people seated there, and behind her is a man at a stovetop, tossing around pots and pans and generating a large volume of steam.

“Here we are,” the Hunter announces. “Best ramen in the Tower.”

“Only ramen in the tower,” his Ghost corrects. “But I do hear good things.”

Eli balks at the idea of exposing his face in this crowded area, where Guardians are seated all about, but the Hunter seems to sense his distress.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t forget about that,” he assures him. “The bowls come to-go ready. I’ll grab a couple and we can take them wherever we want.”

“I say we go to that spot above the Hangar,” Ghost puts in. “There’s a beautiful view and no one is ever up there but us.”

“Good call,” the Hunter agrees. “We can show you the huge chunk of the Almighty that almost obliterated the Tower.”

Eli shakes his head in bewilderment. “The what? That almost what?”

“Oh, it’s quite a story. Let’s save it till we get our food, shall we?”

Eli still hesitates. He feels heat rising into his cheeks and is doubly glad of his helmet's mask. “I’m sorry, Hunter. I have nothing but my clothes and weapons. I can’t…I don’t—”

The Hunter stops him, seeing that he is becoming really flustered. “None of us have anything when we first get here. Don’t be embarrassed about it. Guardians don’t pay for food in the Tower, anyway.”

“Oh,” Eli says, disregarding this advice and continuing to be embarrassed. “Why?”

“It’s a deal the Vanguard worked out with the civilian contractors. They think feeding Guardians for free is worth the tradeoff of getting a spot in the tower to set up shop, so everyone wins.”

“But the City is enormous. Why do they want a place in the Tower so badly?”

“Notoriety, for one. Nothing like being able to say ‘as enjoyed by Titans in the Tower’ in your ads. Also, all the restaurants and cafés here have adjoining shops that sell all types of other things. Guardians spend glimmer like the stock market is about to crash, so they wind up making a lot more than they lose on food.”

“Stock market?”

“Uh, yeah. It’s another ancient Earth term. I don’t really know why I still use it. No one ever understands what I mean.”

“You have memories, then? Of your previous life?”

“Nope. Not even a little. But memory loss doesn’t impact language acquisition, so you wake up talking and you keep all your own turns of phrase and verbal mannerisms—things like that. If you speak any other languages, you won’t know till you read or hear them. Kind of a fun surprise to look forward to.”

“Which languages do you speak?”

“So far, only Earth English, which is almost exactly like the current lingua franca, and extremely antiquated Earth Russian. Ghost found me in what used to be Russia, but since I woke up speaking English, we figure I was probably a North American intelligence agent who knew the local language.”

“North American?”

“It’s one of the ancient republics that got absorbed into the whole Unified Americas conglomerate. You can have Lis pull up the history films about it, if you ever want to be bored out of your mind. Be right back.”

The Hunter goes to the counter and returns bearing the containers of food, then they make their way back up the stairs into the Courtyard, and down the other stairs into the hangar. From here, they ascend another three sets of stairs, plus a ladder—which is a tricky climb with a bowl of hot liquid, sealed container or no—and finally arrive at their objective atop the hangar.

There is no one around and the illumination in this area is limited to rather dim, yellowish safety lights. This puts Eli, who is growing increasingly accustomed to this name, more at his ease. The Hunter chooses a spot, and they get seated comfortably enough on the wall, with their bowls in hand and their legs dangling over the dizzying drop on the outside.

The rain let up hours ago, and the sky is clear and black and filled with glittering stars. The moon shines as brightly as it can, but is dwarfed to insignificance by the Traveler, glorious and bone-white, dominating the horizon behind them. As they sit, the Hunter points out a gigantic, semi-cylindrical object lying among the mountains in the distance. Its surface is reflective where it is not charred or destroyed, and Eli can see that it is manmade, despite his brain trying to reason that something so immense must be geological in nature.

“That was a ship?” he asks.

“A tiny piece of one,” the Hunter answers. “The Almighty. Dominus Ghaul’s star-destroying dreadnaught and final, post-mortem fuck you to humanity. When the Red War ended, no one knew what had become of it. Then it reappeared in the Sol system, set on an unstoppable collision course with Earth, intended to annihilate the planet.”

“What happened?”

“Rasputin stopped it.”

“How? Who is Rasputin?”

“Warmind. It’s like a giant supercomputer that makes predictions and strategic decisions regarding armed conflict on a galactic scale. Develops and builds weapons, too. Some Golden-Age scientists designed it for planetary defense, but it—he—became a lot more than that. A truly autonomous AI. Oh, and he speaks the same antiquated Earth Russian I do. That’s how I found out I spoke it.”

“Tell him the story, Hunter,” Ghost interjects. “We survived, so it’s a really good story.”

“Rasputin warned us the Almighty was on its way. The Vanguard sent strike teams, but there was nothing they could do to stop it. It became visible in our sky one day, and three days later it was eclipsing the sun.” The Hunter pivots his torso and gestures to the sky behind them, to the west of the Traveler. “It was there when the Warmind sent hellfire from every cannon in the system to meet it. Ghost and I were here in the Tower when it happened. We saw them coming. A few little red lines in the sky, then more and more, till there were too many to count. They converged on the Almighty, and then…nothing. Rasputin had failed. It was the most crushed I’ve ever been.”

“Then what?” Eli prompts, unconsciously leaning forward.

“Then there were all these tiny flashes. It looked like the Almighty was sparkling. Then a huge white flash that filled the entire sky, and a second later, this literally earthshaking boom. The explosion was so massive that we were all blind and deaf for a full minute afterward, maybe more. I felt debris hitting the tower, then that chunk out there went screaming right overhead, so close the wind almost knocked me off my feet.

I still thought we were done for, and that the Almighty was gonna wind up taking us down with it. But it turned out Rasputin had saved us all. When the smoke cleared, there was the wreckage, spread out across the sky and raining down all around us like shooting stars. In the end, the Tower suffered minimal damage and no casualties. Except for one engine mechanic, who banged his shin on a fuel tank while we were all blinded.”

“That’s incredible,” Eli murmurs, gazing at the monumental piece of debris in the distance. “This Rasputin must be quite an extraordinary, uh…AI? Is that appropriate?”

“He prefers person, and yeah, he’s pretty extraordinary. Or, he was. We’re not sure if he’s—” the Hunter’s voice falters and he clears his throat. “We’re not sure where he is. He went dark right after that, and we haven’t heard from him since.”

“I’m sorry,” Eli says, with a sympathetic frown, that is lost behind his mask. “I hope your friend is alright.”

“He’ll be ok,” the Hunter shrugs, returning instantly to his former cavalier tone. “He’s the Warmind, I’m sure he had a plan. We should eat before the ramen gets cold. It’s no good cold.”

With that, they remove their helmets and set to, enjoying the surprisingly excellent meal in silence, and looking out over the snow-capped mountains and broad, tree-covered valley outside the City walls.

“I have a kind of weird question for you,” the Hunter says, setting down his empty bowl. “Did you shave while you were living out in the woods?”

Eli shakes his head. “No. I had no way of doing that. Why?”

“You don’t have a beard or anything. I’d look like Odysseus after a week, but you don’t even have stubble.”

“I must not grow facial hair. Do I…have eyebrows?”

“Yeah, you have eyebrows,” the Hunter says, laughing aloud.

Eli is suddenly aware that they are looking directly into each other’s eyes for the first time. He smiles back, but the Hunter turns away quickly, attempting to conceal an expression that looks like…pain. His heart sinks with disappointment. It’s that thing again. The thing that makes people hate him. That must be the reason the Hunter avoids looking at him, and for his oddly abrupt shifts between sincerity and glibness.

“I’m sorry,” he says dismally, staring down into the fathomless dark below his feet. “I don’t know what I did, but I’m sorry I came back to remind you all of it. Thank you for trying to be kind to me, but I…I shouldn’t be here. This was a mistake.”

He moves to get up, but the Hunter stops him with a hand on his shoulder. The second time he has touched him in this familiar way.

“Don’t go. Please.”

There is more in this plea than pity and Eli feels it, or he would make good on his words and depart then and there. Instead, he remains seated beside the Hunter, whose hand is still resting on his shoulder. That this man had known him is now plain as day, but he cannot guess at the nature of the connection.

He wonders briefly if they had been lovers, but dismisses this immediately. A man would have a heart of stone who could govern his conduct so carefully when confronted with a loved-one who had died. This man had shown emotion over the loss of a complex artificial intelligence. He has no such calcified heart. Eli feels sure they had not been friends, either. So, what had they been to one another?

“We better turn in before it gets any colder out here,” the Hunter remarks, rising to his feet. “I hope you’ll stay, at least for a little while.”

“I will,” Eli says. “At least for a little while.”

The Hunter smiles. “Good. Get some rest and I’ll meet you in the Courtyard tomorrow morning. But like…Hunter morning. So noon. Noonish.”

“We’ll be there at exactly noon,” Ghost interposes. “I’ll make sure of it.”

Eli and Lis bid the pair goodnight, then make their way back to their new quarters on their own. The moment they are inside, Eli tosses away his helmet and goes into the bathroom. He switches on the light, then stands before the mirror, frowning at his reflection as if it is an enemy. His face is…not what he’d expected. He doesn’t know what he _had_ expected, but it had not been this.

It is a more pleasing face to look at than he would have guessed from the reactions of those who’d seen it. Almost totally symmetrical, with refined features that speak of good breeding, though they are too masculine to be beautiful. Full, firm lips. Angular jaw and cheekbones. His nose is objectively perfect, and he amuses himself with the idea of becoming vain of it.

He is no longer frowning, but there are permanent creases in his brow, as if he’d furrowed it often in his previous life. In fact, there is something inherent to his face—something in its very structure—that makes it seem sad. Maybe it’s his eyes. Their large, almond shape and deep set beneath his black brows give them a sort of haunted appearance.

His irises glow, as he assumed they would, based on his observation of other Awoken, but they are a kind of pale-gold color, which he’s not sure he likes. He wishes they were that piercing, brilliant blue, like Commander Zavala’s. As he has also observed with other Awoken, patterns of intrinsic light shimmer across his violet-blue skin, like caustic reflections from the waters of creation. This lends his outward appearance a mystical quality that he does not feel internally, and makes him uneasy.

He looks up at his hair and cards his fingers through it. It has fallen into his face often enough for him to guess at the color, but he’d been unaware that the white streaks blazing through the jet black were so pronounced. If the white is an indicator of age, he has no idea what that age might be. Awoken are immortal, Guardians or no, so he could be anywhere from thirty solar years old to many hundreds.

Overall, he finds himself a bit disappointed. A face that provokes such open animosity from others should be… _uglier_ , for lack of a better term. There should be some cruel sharpness to it, or horrid disfiguration to set him apart and brand him as anathema. Pariah. Outcast.

He wonders if that’s what these white markings across his eyes and between his brows mean, and if they are permanent. They must be, since he’s bathed many times since he’s been alive and they are still there to be wondered at. He rubs one absently as he gazes at himself for another moment or two, then he strips off his armor and clothing to bathe.

When he steps into the shower, he is immediately and overwhelmingly certain that staying had been the right decision. He has never bathed in heated water, and the luscious sensation of standing beneath the steaming, soothing torrent, as it pelts his shoulders and washes over his body, is almost worth all the scorn and rebuke the other Guardians could hurl at him. It feels so good he nearly weeps.

Then he does weep, bitterly and from the pit of his being. For what reason, he cannot tell. Sadness, distress, simple exhaustion—nothing, everything, it does not matter. When the tears are spent at last, he finds that he feels drained, but much less sick at heart, as if he has purged some poison from a deep wound. The exercise of weeping is apparently just as cleansing as the shower, though he does not think he would want to perform it as often.

Before he shuts off the water, he has a thought, and reaches down to inspect his external genitalia. He knows how they work in general—not everything has been banished from his mind—but he does not know how well his function in particular, except with regard to urination. He cups and prods his testicles curiously, finding that they seem to be normal, as far as he knows, then takes the shaft of his penis in his hand. Leaning his forehead on the wall to look down at it, he pulls back the thin membrane of skin to expose the round head. It is highly sensitive. He circles it slowly with the pad of his thumb.

He wonders how long he’s been dead, and how long it has been since someone has touched him. Intimately, that is. Not in the companionable way the Hunter had put a hand on his shoulder. His mind helpfully supplies a quite different image of the Hunter touching him. His cock responds immediately, swelling and thickening till it stands out rigidly from his pelvis, like an absurd spear. Interesting.

He wraps his fingers firmly around the base and watches his fist slide up and down the shaft in the stream of hot water. Slowly at first, then faster and harder. His thigh muscles tense and his heart begins to pound. A barrage of disjointed images pass rapid-fire through his mind has he strokes himself feverishly. A muscular body, skin on skin, touching, kissing, sucking, strong hands holding him down and—he comes suddenly with a soft cry, his cock pulsing in his hand and spitting streaks of faintly luminescent fluid onto the wall.

He stands there blinking and catching his breath for a moment, then rinses it off and watches as it mingles with the running water, swirling down the drain. A childish metaphor, but oddly apposite. Lis had previously informed him, for some reason known only to himself, that Guardians are reproductively sterile. Perhaps the helpful Ghost thought he would desire to make small copies of himself one day, and wished to spare him the future disappointment of finding out he was unable to do so.

Sterility notwithstanding, he had been a functioning adult male before he died, and had certainly had sex. He remembers no partner and no specific incident, but now he knows he has tactile memory of the procedure and sensations of male-male intercourse. He has no such sensory index for male-female sex, but he finds the idea repellent anyway.

He has a strong impression that male-female copulation is something that is required of one for the purposes of breeding, regardless of preference on either side. A genetically suitable match is found, the female receives the male’s seed, and the whole distasteful transaction is complete. There is also some echo in his mind regarding male-female pairs being generally discouraged from becoming excessively attached to one another.

This must be Awoken cultural memory. Lis explained that he will instinctively know many things he does not remember learning, even things like complex social customs. He doesn’t think he knows much about human social behaviors, though. For example, would it be acceptable to ask a human male outright if he’d like to have sex? He feels positive that it would be in Awoken society, but he has a vague idea that humans are backward about such things. Maybe some lingering religious taboo, or something.

He thinks over these things as he lies alone in his small, uncomfortable bed. He supposes it’s best to put that kind of companionship out of his mind and let the issue arise organically, as it may. The Hunter and Commander Zavala are the only two male people he has ever spoken to, at this point, and neither would be feasible sex partners. Besides, the Commander is far too aged and dignified to be thought of in that way.

This bed really is godawful, though. He shifts about and adjusts his position until he gives up, throws the blanket on the floor, and lies down on it. This way, he finds he is able to drift in and out of an uneasy sleep for some hours.

Accustomed to waking in the pre-dawn, however, he is unable to make himself stay in bed (on the floor in his blanket) past 0600. He manages to make his morning grooming and dressing last until 0700, at which point he emerges from the bathroom and stops short, glancing about in perplexity.

“Lis…what are all these things?”

“Good morning, Guardian,” Lis chirps. “These things are fruits, cheeses, bread, wine—”

“I meant where did they come from? You didn’t go on a crime spree while I bathed, did you?”

Lis tilts his shell to one side. “I do not think so. I do not know what a crime spree is. They came from Tower merchants. They are welcoming gifts.”

“Are they, now,” Eli mutters, eyeing the card attached to a basket of plump, velvety peaches.

“Yes. They were delivered by several couriers, all at once, and I was very confused. They would not take confused for an answer, however, and so here are all of these things. I think it is a lovely gesture.”

“They’ve all dropped in friendly reminders of the locations of their shops and what type of items they stock, too. I suppose they think it wise to secure a new Guardian’s custom as soon as possible. Are there any weapons or anything else of real use?”

“No weapons. But you do need food, so I consider these to be very useful items.”

“Until they spoil and become a mess. I can’t possibly consume all of this on my own before that happens. Excepting the nonperishables and wine. Why is there so much wine?”

“I do not know. Perhaps it is popular among Guardians.”

“I feel as if I liked wine, but I can’t remember. Doesn’t it seem like a thing I would’ve liked?”

“You most likely favored whatever beverage most Awoken favor, which does happen to be wine. Of course, it would be of their own making, so there may be a difference.”

“There’s coffee,” Eli says. He is rummaging through a wooden crate marked ‘Solanki Sundries’ and pulling out various small packages. “And sugar and tea. If only I had a teapot—oh, there’s one in here. And a pair of teacups. How thoughtful.”

“That is very thoughtful,” Lis agrees sunnily. “I told you things would be much better at the Tower, and you see? They are. You have food and a real bed and do not have to bathe in the river, and there are shops and people to—”

“Lis, you don’t have to keep selling me on it. Are you worried that I’m going to run away?”

“Well, a little. After what you said last night.”

“Put your mind at ease. I’ve decided to remain here and see what happens. I think that Hunter knows something about me. Who I was, I mean.”

“Before I forget, I meant to ask you something,” Lis says, as if eager to change the subject. “Why did you choose the name Eli? I have never heard you use it before.”

“Oh…I have no idea, honestly. It was just the first thing that popped into my head.” He pauses and taps absently on the box of tea he is holding. “Although, I’m not sure I’m entirely pleased with it. I don’t feel it fits me, exactly.”

“Perhaps you will get used to it. If not, you can always change it.”

“Or we can find out my real name. Maybe that one won’t feel so strange.”

Lis shifts his shell plates uncomfortably. “Eli…Guardians do not do that.”

“Do not do what?”

“Do not seek information regarding their past lives.”

Eli frowns. “Guardians aren’t allowed to know who they were before?”

“It is not expressly forbidden, but it is strongly discouraged.”

“Why?”

“The purpose of a Guardian is to serve the Light. Seeking one’s past identity can complicate things. Among those who have done so, very few have succeeded in learning anything, and even fewer have been pleased with what they have found. Most often the result is only regret, for which there is no remedy.”

“Judging from the reactions of people we’ve encountered, I doubt I’d be pleased with what I find. But it would be better to know why they hate me than to wander blindly in the dark, chained to a past of which I know nothing.”

“You may be right,” Lis reluctantly assents. “But that is not a problem that can be solved at the moment. I think you should stick with the Hunter, for now, and let him teach you about being a Guardian.”

“I’m inclined to think I should, as well. I suppose we shall see how well I take to it. Show me how to operate this device. I’d like to have tea with breakfast.”

Lis shows him how to heat water in the electric kettle, and in a few minutes, Eli has prepared himself a pleasant breakfast of cheese, cured meat, fruit, and fresh-baked bread, from among the things that have been delivered, along with some very satisfactory Earl Grey tea. He wonders what a breakfast among his people would be like, but instinct tells him it wouldn’t be all that different. They were human once, after all.

When he’s finished eating and tidied up his breakfast things, he finds he still has some four hours before he’s set to meet the Hunter. Lis suggests they explore the tower some more, and he can think of nothing better to do, so he pulls on his helmet and they set out.

He finds his observations of the place and its people made clearer by rest and food, and the fresh light of morning. It really is an odd mix of things. In the Bazaar, there are a lot of richly-carved wood surfaces and pretty tile mosaics, and the whole thing is hung about with vibrant fabrics and banners. The Courtyard is still rather ugly, in that frank, pragmatic way that military facilities tend to be.

What catches his attention most as he walks about, however, is that Guardians appear to be allowed to do pretty much anything they want. He sees none doing anything outright malicious, but he is astonished at some of the behavior the civilians tolerate without objection. Without so much as batting an eye, in fact.

A Warlock walks behind the counter of a shop, takes a book from the glass case and flips through it, then sets it down and walks out again, and the two women working there take absolutely no notice of her. A Titan suddenly stands up on a table and begins dancing, right beside a table where a civilian couple are dining. The two civilians don’t even turn their heads. They simply carry on their conversation, as if nothing out of the ordinary has occurred.

Eli supposes they must be accustomed to witnessing bizarre behaviors like these, and are no longer troubled by them. He is not entirely satisfied with this conclusion, however, until he observes multiple Guardians diving blithely to their deaths over the Courtyard railings. Then it solidifies. These civilians have taught themselves to ignore or simply accept Guardian behavior, because none of it makes any more or less sense than suddenly committing suicide by leaping from an incalculable height, then reappearing to laugh about it a few moments later. How strange, that these powerful, terrifying children are the shield that stands between humanity and annihilation.

He ponders this as he sits high atop the Hangar, in the spot the Hunter brought him last night, gazing out across the valley below and feeling the warmth of the sun through his various pieces of armor. He wishes he could take the helmet off and breathe the fresh air. Feel the breeze on his face. But this is the price society exacts. Relinquishment of some personal freedom in exchange for the protection of its encircling embrace. Still, it does feel unfair that he is forced to cover his face because the man who used to own it did something awful.

He is that man, though…isn’t he? He can’t remember, but that doesn’t change whatever he did. Whoever he hurt still feels the impact of his actions. Whatever destruction he caused will not be mended by his personal forgetfulness. Ignorance does not equal innocence. They don’t hate him because of his face. They hate him because of who he was. Who he is.

The scrape of a footstep behind him puts all his senses on high alert, and though his body shows no outward sign of it, every muscle coils tight to strike.

“Guardian, hello!” a female voice calls out. “I’m so glad I found you!”

He turns to look and relaxes somewhat. The voice belongs to a young woman in a dark red and grey uniform. She appears to be in a quite a hurry and is more than a little out of breath.

“Good morning, ma’am,” Lis chimes, emerging from somewhere on Eli’s person. “What can we do for you?”

“I’m—Lieutenant Yun,” she puffs, removing her hat and fanning herself with it. “Wow, that’s—it’s quite a climb. Hoo, boy. I need to hit the gym. Guardians must stay in amazing shape.”

“They do,” Lis replies agreeably. “The antigravity abilities and superhuman strength help, too.”

“I bet! I could really use some of that, myself,” she laughs. “Anyway, Commander Zavala sent me to find your Guardian. He’d like him to come to his office at his earliest convenience.”

“I see. Is there something wrong?”

“I’m sure it’s nothing. If I had to guess, I’d say he found you guys a mentor and wants to connect you before they give him the slip.”

“My Guardian already has a mentor. Wait, give him the slip? Do you mean they would try to avoid the task?”

“Yeah, but don’t take it personally. Hunters are like that. I can walk you guys over there now, if you’d like. It’s not easy to find.”

Lis hesitates. “My Guardian has made a prior commitment. Perhaps—”

“We are at the Commander’s service,” Eli cuts in, rising to his feet. “Lead the way, please.”

Lieutenant Yun undertakes the precarious ladder again with admirable courage, considering that a fall from such a height would be her last. She also proves to be a useful guide, helping them navigate the surprisingly obtuse route to the Commander’s office, at which they arrive within a few minutes.

The office itself a spacious room decorated with the utmost good taste, featuring two walls of bookshelves and a floor-to-ceiling window. The Commander is standing at the far end, before the expansive window, gazing out at the City below. Lieutenant Yun goes over and says something into his ear, then makes herself politely scarce, shutting the door behind her.

“Guardian, thank you for coming,” Commander Zavala says, turning to greet Eli. “Please, have a seat.”

He indicates to a chair and takes his own seat across the desk. Eli sits and waits politely for the Commander to open his topic. He seems about to begin, then apparently changes his mind and pauses.

“Guardian, I know you’re new to our customs,” he says, and there is that fatherly tone again, “but it’s common courtesy to remove your helmet in the presence of a superior officer. Especially when seated in his office. Would you mind?”

“Of course. I apologize, Commander,” Eli replies, his voice as smooth as velvet, despite his dry throat and pounding heart.

He unfastens the helmet and turns to set it on the floor beside his chair, then looks the Commander full in the face, watching carefully for his reaction. There is none whatsoever.

“Thank you,” the Commander nods. “I very much dislike this kind of thing, and if I could avoid it, I would, but there is a matter we must address. I’m afraid I have to inquire regarding the origin of your ship.”

“The origin of my ship,” Eli repeats slowly, truly blindsided. If he’d had to guess at what Commander Zavala’s reason for calling him here could be, his ship would not even have been on the list. “I don’t understand, sir.”

“Due to an irregularity in its records, your jumpship was flagged for follow-up by our registration system,” the Commander explains. “The technician assumed this was a mistake, but upon further inspection, it turns out that there is, indeed, a problem.”

“A problem of what kind?”

“It would seem that your jumpship is listed by the Awoken Cultural and Historical Administration as a missing artifact of historical significance.”

Eli blinks. “But…how is that possible?”

“We’re not sure, but Ms. Holliday looked into it carefully, and there is no mistake. The only ships of that line ever produced were part of a small, personal fleet belonging to the Awoken Queen. All of these have been accounted for but one, which was lost along with its pilot, some three centuries ago.”

“Do you think that I killed a pilot and stole a ship three-hundred years ago?”

“Of course not, nothing like that,” the Commander says, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “The assumption is that you came by it honestly, obviously. But the ACHA will likely want to recover it. They will also want to question you regarding where you acquired it, since any information you have may aid them in discovering the circumstances of its disappearance, and that of its pilot.”

Eli shakes his head. “Commander, I would like nothing more than to cooperate fully, but I do not know how I acquired the ship.”

“What do you mean?” the Commander frowns.

“I mean just as I say. I don’t know how I got it. When my Ghost raised me, I was out of my senses for…how long, I don’t know. When I came back to myself on Earth, I had the clothing on my body and that jumpship. I have no memory of anything between waking up on a stone slab, and finding myself there.”

“How very strange. I don’t doubt that you’re telling the truth, but it is a singular experience. Most of the Risen are fully aware from the moment of their resurrection. Have you had any other odd experiences or gaps in your memory?”

“You mean, aside from the fact that I was raised from the dead by a talking metal flower, and can’t remember anything about my life or who I was?”

The stoic Commander almost smiles. “I take your point. However, we are still in a difficulty. I would prefer not to subject you to an inquisition just because you stumbled upon a ship the Awoken lost track of centuries ago. But we can’t exactly ignore it and have you flying it around. They’re bound to notice.”

“I don’t have any sentimental attachment to it,” Eli replies, spreading his hands in a gesture of acquiescence. “Let them have it, with my compliments.”

“I’d prefer a solution that leaves you out of it entirely.”

“Well…I suppose you could inform them that it is here, that no one will claim it and no one knows where it came from—which is true—and that if they don’t want it scrapped for parts, they have three days to remove it from Vanguard premises.”

The Commander actually does smile at this, which would have impressed the Guardian a great deal more, had he known the precise rarity of the phenomenon.

“Then we will consider the matter settled. Of course, you will be compensated for the loss of your ship. I’ll see to it personally that you get the best one we can procure.”

“Thank you, Commander,” Eli says sincerely. “This is the first kindness anyone but my Ghost has shown me.”

The furrow in Commander Zavala’s brow returns. “Has your mentor been unkind to you?”

“Oh, no. I misspoke. He has been exceedingly kind. I meant the other Guardians I’ve happened upon since I woke up. They have been…unwelcoming, to say the least.”

“I see. And you have met many who treated you this way?”

“Not many. But of those who saw my face, all reacted badly. Some spat undiluted venom. Some only seemed wounded by my presence. Since then, I’ve been afraid to remove my helmet in the presence of another Guardian. It hurts too deeply, to see written on their faces what I can’t read in my own memory. I know only that I am alone, and I am hated.”

This is related with such simplicity and sorrow, that it touches the old Titan’s heart. “You are not alone, Eli. I’ve seen your face and I do not hate you. The Hunter saw your face as well, didn’t he? He does not hate you.”

“But others will. Won’t they.”

The Commander steeples his fingers thoughtfully. “People have difficulty accepting others, for various reasons. If our Guardians choose to express this difficulty in ways that are not constructive, they will be reminded to conduct themselves in a manner befitting the Vanguard.”

“But there must be a reason I have earned the hatred of so many.”

“You have done nothing to earn the hatred of anyone. You were chosen by the Light to defend humanity from those who would destroy it, just as they were. Just as we all are. They will come to understand that.”

“I see,” Eli replies, unable to mask his crushing disappointment.

He had almost thought he was on the point of learning something—anything that might help him decipher this riddle, but these platitudes and non-answers do nothing to ease his mind. Commander Zavala does not strike him as a man who it would be wise to press for information, however, so he sits silent, waiting to be dismissed.

“Guardian…there are many complex wheels in the world. I would be grieved to see you crushed in the machinery,” the Commander says, in a tone freighted with meaning. “To that end, I would advise that you continue your practice of anonymity, at least until you are…more familiar with your circumstances. For now, I only ask that you trust me and your mentor, and trust that we will act in your best interest.”

Eli looks up at him, feeling a little thrill of hope creeping in again. “Yes, sir. I will. Thank you, Commander.”

“Good. Then we understand one another,” the Commander says, rising from his chair. “I hope the matter with your ship will not cause you any great inconvenience. We’ll have a replacement for you as soon as possible.”

Eli rises and shakes the Commander’s proffered hand, thanking him again, then he fastens on his helmet and departs. Once out in the corridor, he slows his pace and meanders along, considering the situation he seems to be working himself deeper and deeper into.

What wheels might he be crushed in? What force dangerous enough to give the Vanguard Commander reason for concern could one man have awakened against himself? Would it be better to cut his losses now, and return to his life of isolation? Or would it be better to bide his time and see how this plays out? Likely the latter. Commander Zavala appears to be genuine in his implied desire to help, and clearly knows quite a bit more than he is letting on. Better not to sever the first line upon which he has tugged, and felt something tug back.

His mind being fully occupied by his thoughts, and thus devoting no attention to where he is going, he almost runs headfirst into another person, who has suddenly come around the corner.

“Oh!” the Hunter’s voice exclaims. “Eli, hey. I was just looking for you.”

Eli blinks up at him. “You were? What happened to noonish?”

“I was bored, so I thought what the hell, I’ll go to work. What were you doing in Zavala’s office? Everything ok?”

“There was a problem with my jumpship. How did you know where I was?”

“We went to your room first, but you weren’t there,” Ghost answers. “Hunter was worried, so I scanned for Lis’ signal and found you guys here.”

“I wasn’t worried,” the Hunter objects. “I was a little…concerned maybe, but not _worried_.”

“You said there’s a problem with your ship?” Ghost asks, ignoring him.

“The Commander says it’s some sort of historical relic and that the Awoken Cultural and Historical Administration people are coming to take it.”

“Damned ACHA thugs,” the Hunter says, shaking his head. “They tried to do the same thing to me.”

“They tried to take your ship, too?”

“Yeah, except it was a bow. It _is_ a bow. But it's worth more than any of my ships. They said it was a historical relic legally belonging to the crown and claimed I had unlawfully removed it from a site of cultural significance.”

“What did you do to convince them otherwise?”

“The thing is, it is a historical relic. A pretty important one, too. It doesn’t belong to the crown, though, and I was able to prove that its actual owner had given it to me, so they had no legs to stand on. They had to let me keep it.”

“How did you prove it?”

“Fortunately for me, our Ghosts are basically always recording everything. I thought it was creepy at first, but you get used to it. And it’s pretty convenient when you’re getting accused of theft by a bunch of Awoken lawyers. We just played them the video file.”

“That is fortunate. I can’t do much about the ship, though. I don’t know how I got it and neither does Lis, so I can’t prove anything one way or another.”

“Lis can’t remember, either?” Ghost asks. “That’s very odd.”

“I thought so, as well,” Lis puts in, emerging to float near Eli’s shoulder. “I remember scanning his body and being so happy I had finally found him, and I remember waking him up. Then there is a sort of…fuzzy patch in my memory, for several hours. The next thing I remember clearly is leaving Reef space bound for Earth.”

“Maybe it has something to do with Riven’s curse,” Ghost says to the Hunter.

“Maybe, but that’s never happened to us,” the Hunter replies doubtfully.

“We were never inside the Dreaming City proper, though,” Ghost argues. “We were never caught in the actual time loop. If Lis entered the city and woke Eli right at the end of a cycle, they’d both be affected by the reset. And if they happened to be crossing the boundary right then, the reset may have just blanked out the lost time for both of them.”

The Hunter does not appear convinced. “That’s a pretty big if. What are the chances of those things happening concurrently?”

“Astronomically low. But it’s not impossible.”

“Why do you think I came from the Dreaming City?” Eli asks, looking back and forth between them.

“Oh, you did,” Lis answers brightly. “That is where I found your body. There were pillars of white stone and golden leaves all over the ground. It was a beautiful place, but very sad.”

“Where? Where was it? Could you take me there?”

“I do not think I could,” Lis says apologetically. “I had never been there and did not know my way around. I am embarrassed to say, I got rather lost. I happened upon you by chance, when I was looking for a landmark by which to orient myself. Then the error in my memory occurred and I do not know how we made our way out. I am very sorry, Guardian.”

“It’s alright, Lis. It’s not your fault.”

“Sorry to change the subject, but does that mean you don’t have a ship?” the Hunter asks Eli.

“For now. Commander Zavala said he would have it replaced. Why?”

“You need to be airborne to do pretty much anything. You’ll have to borrow one of mine till they get you sorted.”

Eli frowns, confused. “One of yours?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry, I have a lot of ‘em. Ghost, bring up my dock inventory please? Here, take whichever one strikes your fancy. Except the one I’m currently using, obviously.”

Eli looks over the hovering display Ghost has projected before them, which contains rows of colored tiles, each bearing a tiny picture of a different jumpship. When touched, these tiles expand into three-dimensional rotatable models of the ships, and list details such as fuel requirements, type of drive, armaments, load capacity, et-cetera.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t be able to—wow, this _is_ a lot of ships. Why do you have so many ships?”

“People like to give me ships for some reason,” the Hunter shrugs. “Those are just the ones I have here at the Tower.”

“I really can’t do this,” Eli says, backing away from the display. “It feels too strange. Would you?”

“Sure. Let’s see. I think…yeah, this is the one. Seems like your style. Ghost, transfer Solpiercer to Eli’s Ghost, please. There you go. You are now mission-ready.”

Eli looks at the display Lis has opened, and nearly gasps aloud. “I can’t accept this! It’s got to be worth…well, a large sum of whatever you people use as currency. It’s too much.”

“You need a jumpship or we can’t go anywhere,” the Hunter says, unconcernedly. “Consider it a loan till you get yours. Just try not to slam it into a ketch or anything.”

“I’ll try. Thank you, Hunter. This is very kind.”

“Don’t mention it. I assume you’ve had breakfast?”

“And then some,” Eli says. “Do you know how much cheese there is in my room right now?”

“Got hit by the welcome wagon, huh?” the Hunter laughs. “I should’ve warned you, but I didn’t want to spoil the surprise.”

“I was definitely surprised. Lis let them all in while I was in the shower. When I came out, the room was a confusion of fruit baskets and reminders to shop at Zythra’s.”

“Yeah, they do that. One of the perks. Or annoyances, depending on your preference. What’s your weapon situation like?”

“I’ve got a revolver I assume is another historical artifact, a half-rusted assault rifle I took from a Fallen scavenger who failed to kill me with it, and my knives. That’s all.”

“We’ll have to get you some weapons today. You feel like going to Mars?”

Eli makes a face behind his mask. “Has anyone ever felt like going to Mars?”

“Nope, but I thought you might be the first, so I had to ask. Anyway, that’s where we’re going. Upside is, you’ll get to see Rasputin. The giant mechanism that used to hold his brain, at least. It’s pretty cool.”

“I imagine it must be, isn’t Mars frozen solid?”

“No, I meant—well, yes it is, but—it’s another old Earth expression. It just means interesting or exciting.”

“Oh. Then I look forward to seeing this cool mechanism. When are we leaving?”

“Whenever you’re ready.”

The colossal Rasputin tetrahedron, residing at the Braytech complex in Hella’s Basin, surpasses Eli’s expectations by several orders of magnitude. He would like nothing more than to spend all day exploring the city-sized network that had been Rasputin’s body and questioning Ana Bray about him, but their goal on Mars is to procure him some weapons. He is not particularly sure how the Hunter means to do this, though. He had assumed Ms. Bray was a weapons merchant of some kind, but it appears that is not the case, as they leave her without even broaching the subject.

He mentions this on their way across the plaza, and the Hunter explains that the best way to procure weapons with no money is to take them from enemies. They are on Mars because the Braytech and IKELOS weapons manufactured here, and often found in enemy possession, happen to be of very high quality.

They surprise a few Legion Cabal and a Psion snooping around the loading docks, which they dispatch without breaking a sweat, but their Legion-issued weapons are biometrically coded to self-destruct upon death and are thus useless. The Ghosts summon their Sparrows, and nothing else of particular interest occurs until they have ridden down a long, snow-swept pathway leading to a place the Hunter calls Alton Dynamo.

As they approach what appears to be a cave at the end of the narrow gorge, they suddenly begin taking fire and have to ditch the Sparrows to dive behind a boulder. Eli peers out and sees the chitin-armored Hive that have been hidden on the high-ground along one side of the cliff-face. Their lookouts must’ve spied the Hunters coming down the trail and alerted them.

Without a word passing between them, Eli covers where he is and begins to return fire, as the Hunter vanishes and flanks, reappearing to short-range the two large knights near the cave entrance. Eli uses this distraction to mop up the squealing acolytes with his revolver, and the devastation of the enemy unit is over with chilling rapidity.

“They didn’t drop anything interesting,” the Hunter says, kicking something that is either a chitin helmet or a skull away into the snow, as Eli trots up to meet him. “Too bad. They usually have a submachine gun or two.”

“What are the Hive even doing here?”

“Looks like they’re still trying to get into Rasputin’s power network. Guess no one told them he’s not at home. We should go in and clean it out, anyway, though. Infestations are bad news for the hardware.”

“Anything in particular I should look out for?”

“Swarming is their most irritating behavior. They’ll send in a bunch of thralls to try to overwhelm us with numbers. Keep a grenade handy in case you get surrounded. Oh, and if you see one with a glowing green head, shoot it before it gets anywhere near you. They explode like bombs. Otherwise, the heaviest hitters will be knights with splinter swords and maybe a couple wizards. Might be an ogre, too. Not sure.”

“Sounds like fun. After you.”

They enter the cave and begin making their way down the winding path, having minimal trouble clearing small knots of Hive they catch unawares along the way. The things appear to have been attempting to nest in the caverns, burrowing and carving their network of tunnels deep into the ice walls. Eli observes this to the Hunter who confirms it, but explains that the brood queen has been exterminated, and this infestation is only the remnants of the nest.

They have just come to the top of a steep passage, where it opens up into a larger area, when a wave of thrall bursts on them, like a screaming ocean made of bones. Having no other option, they plunge headlong into the fight. Eli’s rusted assault rifle jams almost immediately and he tosses it away, resorting to grenades and the revolver, and following up with his knives when a killing blow fails to land.

He he glances over to see how the Hunter is faring, and is briefly awestruck by the astonishing savagery with which the man fights. He moves like a dancer, almost, weaving through of the swarm of enemies, vanishing and reappearing with his black blades buried in a chest cavity, then whirling about to shatter a head with a well-timed shotgun blast. There is a kind of brutal beauty to it that thrills Eli to his core.

The distracted moment costs him, however, and he is hit full in the chest by a knight’s gigantic splinter sword. The force of the blow sends him sailing partway down another of these interminable passages, separating him from the Hunter. Stunned and with the wind thoroughly knocked out of him, he struggles to his feet and reels drunkenly. Lis makes the necessary repairs as quickly as possible, then he sprints back to the room he came from.

Or rather, what he thought was that room. He discovers his error when he emerges from the passage in another open area, that is not much different to all the others, excepting a huge ice-pillar in the center. He barely has time to swear an oath and wheel about, when he is grabbed by a massive hand, that clamps onto his ribcage like steel pincers. He hears his own bones cracking, then the thing hurls him to the ground at its feet.

“Hunter! Hunter!” Lis calls frantically over the comms. “Eli is down!”

“Go res him if he’s down!” the Hunter shouts back, over the howling of a wizard. “That’s why you’re here!”

“I can’t get to him! There are three ogres and they all have their eye-beam things on him!”

“Three?”

“Yes! They disintegrated his body and they are still blasting the spot where he died!”

“God damn it,” the Hunter growls. “I’ll be right there.”

Back in the room Eli was dragged into, three hulking Hive ogres, with their slavering mouths and bulbous, grotesque limbs, are scouring the icy floor with the ravenous death blasts that emanate from their cyclopean eye-sockets. Just as Lis said, there is nothing left there to destroy, but ogres are not deployed in battle for their great intelligence. Thus focused on their current occupation, they do not even see the author of their deaths.

Not that they would have, anyway. Faster than sight, a black, flickering form appears from thin air and strikes out like an asp, cutting down one colossus, and vanishing again. The other two stomp and bellow in fury for a brief moment, then there is only the one. His ogre mind has just begun to reflect upon what kind of foe this may be that has destroyed his brothers with such alacrity, when he too is released from the burden of life, and crumbles to the ground like a fallen mountain.

The little purple-shelled Ghost is already on the spot, employing his own tiny, white eye-beam on the lingering traces of particles that constitute his Guardian’s mortal remains. After a few seconds, the miracle of resurrection has been performed, and Eli stands before them, without a scratch on him that wasn’t already there.

“Thanks, Lis. Come on, Hunter, let’s deal with the rest!” he says, and dashes off down the tunnel, before anyone has a chance to wonder if he’s alright. The Hunter and Lis exchange a look, then hurry after him, lest he get himself immediately back into the same kind of situation.

All told, the battle for the inner workings of the absent Golden-Age AI takes about two hours, and no more resurrections are required. By the end, Eli is in possession of a serviceable sidearm, a slightly better assault rifle than the one he threw away, and a piece of chest armor he doesn’t really like, but assumes will be worth something in trade.

They return to report the situation to Ana Bray, who thanks them sincerely and gives them containers of Seraphite, which the Hunter later explains is a highly valuable mineral found only on Mars. She also very kindly (and urgently) offers them the use of the showers in the vacant staff dormitory, a short walk from her post in the Braytech lobby. They are absolutely drenched in Hive-goo of indeterminate nature, and gladly accept.

Eli strips to his violet-blue skin without a second thought and heads into the shower. The Hunter disrobes more hesitantly, taking a shower head at the opposite side of the communal stall, and attempting not to look directly at his companion. Elated and energized by the adrenaline of battle, however, Eli doesn’t notice his companion’s awkwardness, and proceeds to recap the highlights of the fight in animated terms as he washes himself, not seeming to care if the Hunter responds or not.

“Is there anything else to be done here?” he asks, as they get back into their armor and clothing, freshly-cleaned courtesy of their Ghosts.

The Hunter shrugs. “Nothing we’re specifically tasked with, but there are patrol beacons all over the place that Guardians can pick up when they have time. You sure you’re ready for more today?”

Eli nods. “Absolutely. I haven’t felt this good in a long time. This feels right.”

“Killing Hive?”

“The fight, more than the killing. The heat, the chaos, blade to blade combat. It makes me feel…more like myself, somehow. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“I do,” the Hunter smiles. “Let’s get back to work, then.”


	2. Part Two: The Saint

In the Tower hangar, beneath the banner-draped canopy of a permanently docked ship, between racks of antique broadswords and ordnance crates illuminated by arrangements of white pillar candles, a tall, heavily armored exo Titan stands. His chest plate bears the designation XIV, and his helm is modeled after that of an ancient centurion, with a brush plume and a strip of lilac-colored light reaching from the crown of the head down to the center of the mask.

Saint-14, the Guardian whose Light casts no shadow, the first Vanguard Commander, hero of the Battle of Six Fronts, slayer of Solkis of the House of Devils, and the greatest Titan who ever lived, is humming softly to himself and scattering a handful of seeds for the plump pigeons gathered at his feet. Every once in a while, he interrupts his tune to cluck and warble to them, or to scold one for being too greedy and failing to share with its brethren. When the seeds are satisfactorily distributed, he dusts off his hands and looks about.

“What is troubling you, my friend?” he asks aloud, despite there being no person visible within earshot of the inquiry. There is silence for a moment.

“What makes you think something’s troubling me,” the Hunter’s voice replies, from somewhere above his head.

The Titan chuckles. “Well, you only hide on top of my ship when some matter is weighing on your mind. Come down and talk with me. Let me do what I can to ease this burden.”

“I’m not hiding,” the Hunter retorts. “It’s comfortable up here. And I can be alone and think.”

“When you want to be alone and so you go where no one can see you, I think this is called hiding.”

There is no reply for another moment. Then the Hunter rolls off the nose of the ship, catching hold of the bowsprit to swing down and land on his feet beside him.

“It is good to see you, my friend!” the Titan says, clapping him heartily on the back, at which the Hunter gives a wince. “Oh—I am sorry, Hunter. You are so large in my mind, I sometimes forget how small you are in the world.”

“I’m not small, you’re just huge,” the Hunter grins. “It didn’t hurt, though. I’m just not used to anyone touching me.”

“Ah,” the old Titan says, with a nod of sympathy. “A sad part of being what we are. As much as others look to us for protection, they know we are weapons, and they are afraid of us. It can be…very lonely, sometimes.”

There is an undertone of personal sorrow in this statement, which the Hunter attributes to his friend’s centuries of solitary captivity in the Infinite Forest. What Saint endured there was an ordeal of suffering he can neither imagine, nor do anything to mend, and he has no idea what to say.

“I hope you’re not lonely now,” he attempts, rather clumsily. “You’re back home with all your friends, and people come from all over the city to see you every day.”

“I did not mean to speak of myself, only of Guardians generally,” Saint-14 says, with a vague gesture, covering the unintentionally exposed weak spot with bright armor, very much in the way of a Titan. “I am here and I am filled with hope again, and it is because of you. Come, sit. Tell me what is on your mind.”

The oddly mismatched pair seat themselves on the stairs leading up into Saint’s jumpship, the Hunter cloaked in black, and the Titan a fortress of silver and purple and gold. Not wanting to press his friend, lest he shy away, Saint-14 watches his birds waddle about and peck probingly at the carpet, as if more seeds may unexpectedly make themselves apparent at any moment.

“It’s about the thing with Uldren Sov,” the Hunter says, rubbing his gloved hands together anxiously. “I’m still all fucked up about it. Sometimes it’s a little better, but this isn’t one of those times.”

“It was complicated situation,” Saint replies gingerly. “Made more so because the man killed your friend. It is still causing you distress?”

“Yeah. I just…I can’t seem to shake it off.” The Hunter looks away, appearing to waver. “Saint, can I tell you something that I’ve never told anyone?”

“You may always tell me what is in your heart. I will keep your secrets as my own.”

“I know everyone says that Cayde was my friend and that’s why I did what I did, but it’s not true.”

“Is it not?”

The Hunter shakes his head. “No. We worked together, but we just weren’t as close as people seem to think. In fact, I barely knew him. It’s not that I don’t regret his loss or think it was a tragedy, but it wasn’t as devastating for me as everyone says. That probably makes me sound like a monster.”

“I do not think you sound like a monster. Many here were Cayde’s friends. Maybe their grief distorts the lens through which they see the actions of others.”

“And they think I did what I did because of grief or some personal vendetta. But I did it because Uldren staged a massively destructive prison break that killed a member of the Vanguard, and the Barons were tearing apart the Reef and threatening the lives of innocent people. It was the right thing to do and it was my job.”

“Then what you did was justice. If some others among us had killed Cayde’s killer, it would have been vengeance. In that case, you saved them from doing a grave wrong.”

“Saint…I didn’t kill Uldren Sov.”

“Oh,” the Titan says, visibly surprised. “I see. I was told that you did and you never contradicted it, so I believed it was true. But I did not ask you myself, so I owe you an apology.”

“No, you don’t. You weren’t here when it happened, and literally everyone says I did it and thinks I did it and has every reason to believe I did it. Except for Zavala, who actually bothered to listen to me. I really don’t care what they think, anyway. The part I can’t stand is that everyone acts like I’m this ruthless killer who hunted him down with the intention of taking blood for blood. They keep congratulating me for getting revenge and it makes me fucking sick.”

“I think that they mean well, but I would not like this so much, either. Unjust praise to me feels the same as unjust accusation.”

“That’s exactly what it feels like,” the Hunter nods. “My job was to bring him to justice under the laws of his own people. I didn’t have the right to kill the heir to the throne of an entire nation, no matter what he did. There are systems in place to handle those kinds of complex and potentially highly destabilizing diplomatic issues. At least, I thought there were. I’m starting to think this world is even more barbaric than the one I died in.”

“But, in that case, how were the Barons any different from the prince?”

“Except for Fikrul, the Barons were known outlaws who had declared war on the Reef and its allies long before Uldren got involved. They went into it intending to kill and cause chaos.”

“You do not think that was the prince’s intention?”

“That’s the thing. It was. But not for its own sake,” the Hunter says, leaning forward earnestly. “The Scorned Barons were meant as a distraction for Petra so Uldren could get to Mara and set her free. To him, the lives lost were a worthwhile price to pay for the millions he thought could be saved by getting her back.”

“This puts very different color on the situation,” Saint says slowly. “How do you know it?”

“I hunted the man for months, Saint. I studied his life, his work, his private communications, anything I could get my hands on. I knew him better than anyone did, except maybe his psychotic sister. You know what I found?”

Saint shakes his head. “I do not know.”

“He was a good man. I mean, yeah, he was kind of an asshole, but he was a hero to his people. He was loyal, intelligent, fearless, and he never hesitated to get his hands dirty. And he did all the dangerous things I do, but without a Ghost to res him. Knowing he could die. Every bad choice he made was out of loyalty and love for his sister. Misplaced as it may have been.”

“But he murdered Cayde. That does not sound like a thing he did from loyalty to the queen.”

“It wasn’t. But at that point, his will wasn’t his own. Somewhere along the way, Riven had started poisoning his mind. He was fully under her control by then.”

“Riven,” Saint breathes, drawing back in horror. “How did such a terrible fate befall him?”

“I don’t know, but she worked on him for decades, as far as I can tell. It didn’t happen all at once, so no one knew why he’d gone rogue after the Taken war. Petra thought he’d lost it over Mara’s death and was taking out his rage on the Awoken that survived, but by the time we finally pinned down his plan and got to him, Ghost and I had figured it out. When we destroyed Riven’s avatar, we broke her hold on him. We had him, unarmed and badly injured, but lucid and alive. I thought we could save him. I thought we _had_ saved him.”

“He was in your custody and unarmed? What happened? How did he die?”

“I held him till Petra showed up. I assumed he’d be taken to wherever the Awoken treat the criminally insane and he would be detained and eventually recover. And then he was dead. Just like that. She shot him, like…it was nothing. Like putting down a wild dog. I couldn’t—”

The Hunter stops short and pulls off his helmet, which is suddenly suffocating him, and passes a hand over his clammy brow, taking deep breaths to quell a wave of nausea. Saint says nothing, simply laying a comforting hand on his back until the fit passes.

“There was nothing I could do,” he begins again, in a shaky voice. “I just went numb. I remember Ghost shouting and Petra talking and all I could think was how strange it was that so much blood could come from such a small wound. I still see him lying there on that floor, with this wet, black halo spreading out around his head. I can’t stop seeing it. I wake up in cold sweats, thinking I hear his voice asking me which side I’m on. And then I have to go out and listen to people congratulating me for killing him, every goddamned day.”

“I am sorry, my friend,” Saint says sadly. “I wish that I could carry this burden for you. But you have spoken with the queen, yes? Did she not share your anger at what had been done to him?”

“Ghost and I went to her throne world to report that he had died. We explained that he’d been loyal to her, but he’d been deceived by Riven, and do you know what her response was? She said he’d been clever and strong, but had always been suggestible. And that she’d always known her plan might kill him. That was her whole response. Her own brother. Who put himself in the hands of the Fallen Kells and let himself be tortured and humiliated for years, all to serve her and her grand design.”

“That does sound strangely callous.”

“You know, I never cared about all her melodramatic space-witch bullshit, or referring to herself in the plural like a fucking asshole—it didn’t even bother me that she called me ‘it’ and was always laughing at me like she knew something I didn’t. All that means is that no one ever taught her any manners. But the way she reacted to the news of her brother’s murder, knowing how he worshipped her…she really is a monster. But she’s a powerful ally, so I guess it doesn’t matter.”

Saint-14 is silent for a long moment, carefully considering all he has heard. This is the most that the taciturn Hunter has ever spoken to him at one time, and while he feels honored to be admitted so deeply into his confidence, he wishes that this had not been the thing with which he was entrusted. He is far too loyal to let his personal discomfort affect his response, however, so he submerges his own feelings and thinks only of his friend. He is also far too honest to let this friend deceive himself.

“I believe you are mostly correct in your judgements, and did as rightly as you could in the situation,” he says at last. “But I think that perhaps…you are not as unbiased in all of this as you believe.”

The Hunter frowns. “What do you mean?”

“I only mean that when we feel strongly one way about a person, it can be difficult to see how others might feel strongly the opposite way.”

“Oh, about Mara? I guess I’d call loathing her feeling strongly, but I don’t see what you’re getting at.”

“Not the queen. I happen to share your opinion of her, though Shaxx may differ. I mean the prince.”

“You think I feel strongly…about Uldren Sov.”

“You have said so yourself. Not in those words, but the fact that you admired him a great deal is very plain. The theme is woven into all you have told me. A stranger, looking at things from the outside, might even think that you were in love with this man.”

The Hunter stares into the middle distance, attempting to process the bizarre thing his friend has suggested. In love…with the prince of the Awoken. Who had utterly despised him, and treated him as if he were less than an insect the few times they’d met. Then murdered the Hunter Vanguard and taunted him with it. Then accused him of not knowing if he was on the side of the Darkness or the Light. Then died in a pool of blood at his feet.

“Oh…fuck.” His head spins and he clutches Saint’s arm for support. “That’s why I can’t let it go. Why it still feels like I’ve been gutted, after two years. I—I got too deep into his head and his life and I fell in love with him, like a fucking idiot amateur. How did I not see this before?”

“For the record, I saw it,” Ghost puts in, materializing at that moment.

“You saw it?” the Hunter says irritably. “Then why didn’t you say anything, you malfunctioning weather balloon?”

“Wow, rude,” Saint’s Ghost interjects, also emerging to float above Saint’s huge, spiked pauldron. “That’s Ghostist remark, if I ever heard one. You gonna take that?”

“Ghostist?” Ghost repeats doubtfully. “I don’t…think that’s a thing.”

The Hunter nods to her. “Hey, Geppetto.”

“Hey, sweetie. How you been?”

“I’m sure you heard,” he says miserably.

“Yeah, I did. That sounds rough.”

“I can’t understand how I fucked up this badly. What is wrong with me?”

“Well…you have terrible taste in men,” Geppetto answers helpfully.

“And you fall in love way too easily,” Ghost adds.

“You bad Ghosts, you be kind to our friend,” Saint chides. “Nothing is wrong with you, Hunter. If the prince was all you say, then he was worthy of the love of a man like you. If he had not lost his mind and murdered Cayde and then been murdered himself, I mean.”

The Hunter sighs, leaning forward to hold his head in his hands. “I brought this on myself. I should’ve known better than to fall for millennia-old alien royalty who hate me and all of my kind.”

“It is very sad circumstance,” Saint says gravely. “If I could do anything to spare you this heartache, I would.”

“No, you helped a lot,” the Hunter says, lifting his head to look at him. “You let me talk it out and process my feelings about it. No one else has done that. Now I guess I just have to try to get my mind off it.”

“I hope you succeed, but it may not be so easy. Your bad dreams and waking suddenly sweating, this is the same as with me, only I do not sweat. Ikora calls it…post trauma distress, or something like that.”

“Post-traumatic stress disorder,” Geppetto corrects.

“Yes, that was it. She tells me it takes time to heal a mind that is broken this way, but speaking of your pain with someone you trust is the first step.”

“Post-traumatic stress. That sounds about right, actually,” the Hunter muses. “Insistent memories, nightmares, repetitive thoughts…you have that, too?”

“I have witnessed many horrors, my friend. I spent years alone, wandering in false realities created by the Vex to torment me and attempt to destroy my mind. Sometimes, I am still not certain that this is real and that I am here.”

“I promise, you’re here,” the Hunter says. He reaches out and pats his friend’s arm, then draws back and looks him up and down. “There’s just nowhere on you that’s not covered in armor. Did you even feel that?”

“A…little bit. I think.”

“Speaking of PTSD—not to display my ignorance here, but I would’ve thought you’d be less susceptible to that kind of thing. Aren’t exo brains better than human brains?”

“They’re better if lasting essentially forever means better,” Geppetto answers. “Other than that, they’re pretty much identical.”

“I am not robot, Hunter, I am man with mechanical body,” the Titan declares, rapping his metal fist on his chest armor, which makes his friend laugh. “I feel things same way you do. I can be happy and sad and lonely and fall in love, just like you.”

“Oh, yeah? You ever fallen in love, Saint?”

“Ha. Once. Long time ago. It did not go as badly as your love for the prince, but it too was not meant to be.”

“Maybe Guardians aren’t meant to fall in love at all. Seems like it just goes terribly wrong.”

“No, I do not believe that. But to be a Guardian is to live a life of loss. All love is bound up with sorrow, for us.”

“That’s beautiful,” the Hunter says. “And a huge bummer.”

“Bummer?” Saint repeats dubiously. “What is this word? I do not know it.”

“It just means something sad.”

“Ah, I see. Yes, it is a bummer. But do not be discouraged. You are strong. I know you will get through it, and I will be here to help you.”

“Thank you, Saint. I don’t think I have anyone else I’d call a real friend, besides Ghost.”

“It was your strength that carried me through those years in the Forest. The least I can do is to return the favor.”

A group of Guardians in Trials armor are approaching from across the hangar, and the Hunter rises to go, knowing that his friend’s attention is about to be required. The two embrace, patting one another heartily on the back, then he pauses.

“Hey, what are you doing tonight?”

“You do not remember? It is last day of the Dawning. Some of the Vanguard are telling stories and teaching the old songs to the children, in Lady Jolder Memorial park. There will be big bonfire and food and drinks—the people would like very much to see you there.”

“Shit, I forgot all about that. I wanted to get out of the City for a while, so I signed up for a bunch of patrols outside the walls for the next few days. I was gonna ask if you wanted to take one with me tonight, but you can’t disappoint your adoring public.”

“No, I cannot,” Saint laughs. “But another time. It would be good to fight side by side again.”

The Hunter departs and Saint cheerfully greets the Trials of Osiris participants, issuing them their tickets and explaining the rules, then re-explaining them, then re-explaining them again in simpler terms. When finally they either understand, or simply pretend to so they can go, he stoops down to sprinkle another handful of seeds before his birds, who warble their enthusiastic satisfaction. Geppetto hovers nearby as he does all this, watching him with a look of concern.

“Saint, are you alright?” she asks gently. “That was…a lot, just now.”

“I will be alright,” he says, as he straightens up to dust off his hands. “I must be. When the people we care about need us to be strong for them, we cannot let them down.”

“But you—”

“Do not worry so much, Geppetto. I will be fine. Maybe I will play prank on Shaxx to cheer myself up.”

About an hour after he leaves Saint-14, the Hunter has taken care of his Tower errands and changed into his drab-colored forest gear. He is preparing to transmat to his jumpship, when he changes his mind and trots back up the stairs from the Annex loading dock. He picks his way through the crowded Bazaar, craning his neck and looking about, until he finds the person he has been seeking.

This person is an Awoken Hunter, with short, black hair and black lipstick, which looks inexplicably superb with her violet complexion. She is lounging with her black-booted feet on a table, idly flipping a hunting knife and generally looking as if being beautiful and immortal is intolerably boring.

“Hey, Karja,” the Hunter calls to her, as he approaches. “You know how we’re best friends and you’ve always loved me?”

“No,” she says in her low, smoky voice, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Exactly! So, is there any chance you’d take a patrol for me tonight?”

She taps her bottom lip thoughtfully with the pointed tip of the knife. “Not a very good chance. Unless you’re planning on making it worth my while.”

“Of course. Uh…what do you want?”

“You know what I want.”

“I told you, there’s no way you’re getting that gun. I couldn’t give it away if I wanted to. But I do happen to have an almost brand-new Gnawing Hunger I just picked up from the Drifter. It’s got hammer-forged rifling and a drop mag.”

She narrows her glowing, cat-green eyes. “What’s the masterwork?”

“Reload speed.”

“Hmm. It’s starting to sound more likely. But I want to know why you need me to cover for you.”

“Oh, Saint-14 has this Dawning thing tonight and he wanted me to come. I forgot and now I feel like a huge asshole.”

She gives him a look. “Seriously? You want me to cover your patrol so you can go to the good-time singalong with all the old people and kids?”

“It’s important to Saint and he’s my friend.”

“You fucking nerd. That’s adorable. Ugh, fine. I’ll do it.”

“Thank you, Karja. I owe you.”

“Yeah, you do. I’m missing my appointment with the weaponsmith for you.”

The Hunter laughs at this, shaking his head.

“What?”

“You know it’s totally sick that you’re fucking him, right? He forgets everything like, every two minutes.”

“He always remembers me,” she says, stretching languidly and crossing her arms behind her head. “What’s the matter, you jealous?”

“Of which one of you?”

“Either.”

“Yeah, a little. Thanks again. You’re the best.”

“You’re welcome and I am.” He turns to go, but she stops him with a word. “Hey, Hunter. If you ever want take a patrol _together_ , let me know. Maybe I’ll show you a few tricks with that hand cannon of yours.”

“I…will definitely do that,” he says, thanking the sky for the helmet he just pulled on, as his face is almost certainly bright pink at the moment. “See you—uh. See you later.”

Of course, his Titan friend is overjoyed to find him at the bonfire, and sees to it that he is only embarrassed to the end of his wits by one round of uproarious applause for the ‘hero of the Red War.’ He enjoys the festival activity because Saint enjoys it, and it warms his heart to see how the people shower him with affection, and little children come running to embrace the massive, steel-clad warrior.

The next night, he is grateful to escape the bustle of the Tower and the City for the wild backcountry outside the walls. Patrols are infrequent, here, since most of the settlers have long been relocated inside the City, and the Vanguard’s enemies do not tend to approach the formidable perimeter in force these days. Sometimes there are Red Legion stragglers and Fallen scavenging parties that need to be dealt with, but mostly, he had wanted to be alone and clear his head.

He finds that the open air and breathing stillness of nature is often the best antidote to his low moods. That, and he hasn’t spent time on Earth in a while. He doesn’t have any memory at all of his past life, not even flashes or images in dreams, like some Guardians have, but he feels a deep connection to the stone and soil of this place. If man really was raised from dust, it would be this dust to which he would return.

He and Ghost ride the Sparrow around for a few hours, making scans and checking outposts for signs of enemy tampering, but mostly enjoying the solitude and beauty of the ancient forest. When the sun goes down, they begin to search for a spot to set up camp for the night. About a kilometer from the river, they find a disused water tower with one side conveniently rusted out. It is also expediently situated, standing only a dozen or so meters from a supply outpost.

Despite Ghost’s misgivings, the Hunter scales the high, rusted ladder with little difficulty, and the Ghost has to content himself with distastefully scanning the inside of the tower and remarking on all the sharp edges while the Hunter sets up what he calls his sniper nest. Once his rifle is in place and he’s got the scope calibrated, he rolls onto his back and lies there looking up at the sky.

He’d been hoping to see the stars, but it’s been raining all day, and there are still low, grey clouds threatening more. Just as he is thinking this, lightning flashes, followed by a crack of thunder, and the sky predictably opens. It’s icy winter rain, but there’s not too much wind, so he’s able to stay relatively dry and comfortable beneath the roof of the water tower.

Hours later, it has gone from cold to actually freezing, and the chunky sleet has given way to whirling snow. Guardians don’t feel temperature the way humans or even Awoken do, so he’s bothered very little by the weather. He loves snow, anyway, and hopes it stays. The white, peaceful world when it is blanketed in fresh snow fills him with a childlike sense of wonder and quiet awe.

He has been gazing up at the fat flakes drifting down for a while, now, so he rolls onto his stomach to peer through his scope. As he is idly scanning the treeline, he catches a glint of light reflected off something metallic, near the cargo door of the outpost. He trains his scope on the spot and waits. Sure enough, the door slides open and a little flower-shaped figure, all bright purple and glittering silver, floats out. He watches it for a minute or so, but no Guardian appears. In fact, the tiny thing seems to be attempting to carry a crate of something out of the outpost all on its own.

“Hey, Ghost. Look,” he whispers. “What is that?”

“He’s a Guardian.”

The Hunter is standing with Saint-14 in the interior of his ship, having refused to reveal his urgent news in the public space of the hangar. His helmet is off, and he is pale and agitated.

“Who is a Guardian?”

“Uldren Sov. Uldren fucking Sov is a fucking Guardian and I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”

“Slow down, my friend,” Saint says. “You are sure of this?”

“We’re sure,” Ghost answers. “We found him and his Ghost last night, out in the woods. He calls himself Eli now, but it’s definitely him and he’s definitely got the Light.”

“In the woods?” 

Ghost bobs up and down by way of nodding. “A few dozen kilometers outside the walls. He’s been living out there alone for months. Starving, apparently, because the other Guardians he ran into were cruel to him and he refused to use the Vanguard outposts.”

“This is very strange,” Saint says, crossing his arms thoughtfully. “We were speaking of him only the other day. Does he know you knew him before?”

“No, of course not,” the Hunter says. “His Ghost knows, but he’s certainly not going to say anything. It was dumping snow, so we took him to the warehouse lookout. We gave him food and spent the night there. I told him I’d meet him when he gets here, but I’m not sure where to go from this point.”

“He is coming to the Tower, then?”

“Yeah. It wasn’t easy, but Ghost and I convinced him to come. He hides his face because of how he’s been treated, so there’s not much danger of him being exposed. Even if he was, it would be better than the Fallen or the Legion or anyone else getting a hold of him. There’d be a war just for a chance at the bounty on him.”

“You are right, he will be safe here. But the Guardians may not be more kind to him than the others he has met. His new life may be a sorrow to him.”

“It seems like it already has been. It doesn’t matter. I have to do whatever I can to help him. That’s why I came to you. You’re the only person I trust.”

“What have you done so far?”

“Told him to come here and meet me, and hinted very strongly that he keep his helmet on.”

“And if he didn’t get _that_ hint, he’s a tree stump,” Ghost adds.

“Alright,” Saint says, rubbing the chin of his helmet thoughtfully. “I must think of how we should proceed. For now, go and meet him, as you promised. Help him get his bearings and make sure he is comfortable. You asked him to come here, and you must be prepared to follow through and take care of him.”

“Do you think there’s any possibility that I wouldn’t?”

“I do not. But Hunter, this Guardian, Eli…he does not know anything of himself or his past life. He does not have the memories that made the prince who he was.”

“I know, Saint, but what could I do?”

“You did the right thing. I only fear that seeing his face every day, knowing the man you knew is gone, may be more painful for you than you imagine.”

“I’m never not seeing his face. At least this way, it’s alive and he still has a chance to be—to be…”

“To be saved?” Saint says, laying a hand on his shoulder. “My friend, he has been saved. He belongs to the Light, now. All you can do is be a friend to him. He will need you.”

“You’ll help him, too, won’t you? You’ll be a friend to him?”

“Of course I will. He is a Guardian. One of the chosen. It is not his fault he wears the face of a man who had so many enemies. But we may have to fight the Vanguard for him. Zavala will not like this.”

“It’s not Zavala I’m worried about. It’s Ikora. She wanted to declare war on the Reef over Cayde’s death, she’s not likely to be any more reasonable about this.”

“Ah. I see. I think…in this case, that the wisest course may be to ask for forgiveness, rather than permission.”

The Hunter nods. “You’re right. Thank you. Thank you so much, Saint. I knew I could count on you.”

“There is one more thing. Are you going to tell him who he was?”

“I’d appreciate your advice on that. I know Zavala feels strongly about Guardians not learning about their past lives, and I get it, but most of us have been dead a long time. Uldren died two years ago and literally everyone in the Sol system knows who he is. I don’t know how we’re going to keep it from him.”

“It will not be possible to hide such a thing from him forever. I do not think it would be right to try. But give him time. He should understand what he is now before he has to face what he was.”

“I wonder if it wouldn’t be better to let him figure it out on his own,” the Hunter offers. “I can protect him and make sure no one finds out who he is for a while. When he does, he can decide what to do himself.”

“He may not care, even then. Many do not.”

“I wouldn’t. I might be curious, but it wouldn’t really matter to me one way or another. I know who I am now.”

“It is little more complicated for him, but I hope for his sake he has such a mindset. He will be happier.”

“There’s also the question of how the Awoken will react. The queen knows how we come back, like blank slates, but the vast majority of his people won’t be able to understand that. The blood prince with a Guardian’s power might seem like a move by the Vanguard to put one of our own on the Awoken throne.”

“If he chose to put forward his claim to the throne, the Vanguard would certainly not support him. On the other hand, if his people accepted his claim, we would not be able to stop him.”

“There’s not much chance of that. Thanks to Petra, they think he died a traitor.”

“He did die a traitor. He was loyal to the queen, but not to his people. He allowed many of them to suffer in his desperation to save her.”

“And she’ll allow all of them to die for whatever scheme she has underway. He mentioned it in one of the journals I recovered. He never stood up to her, but he’d been angry with her because she casually referred to their subjects as a sacrifice. He didn’t seem to know what she meant, but I have a pretty fair idea. Those throne worlds don’t come cheap.”

“You think the Awoken queen is trying to become a god?” Saint asks, taken aback.

“I think she already thinks she _is_ a god. From what I can tell, she’s not that far off.”

“What makes you say this?”

“I don’t know exactly how powerful she is, but her throne world is fucking massive. Nothing like the others I’ve seen or heard described. And I’m about ninety percent certain she let herself die in order to test her strength against death on its own turf. So, either she’s incredibly arrogant…”

“Or she is right. I do not know which would be better. You know what they say about absolute power.”

“I guess all we can do is hope that whatever she’s up to won’t backfire and destroy all of us. Shit. I gotta go. He’ll be here soon and I want to find him before he reports to Zavala.”

“Yes, go, go. But Hunter, please be careful.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t let him out of my sight.”

“I mean be careful with yourself. I would not like to see your heart broken a second time.”

“Thank you for looking out for me, Saint. But I know what I’m doing. I know he’s not that man, anymore. I know he won’t ever be. But he’s an innocent person who is alone and in pain and he doesn’t know why. Right now, I’m all he’s got. I can’t let him down.”

“You are a good man, my friend. He is lucky to have you.”

Geppetto opens the doors and Saint-14 bids the Hunter goodbye from inside the ship, not following him down the stairs. When the doors close again, he sits down on one of the bench seats attached to the bulkhead and removes his helmet. He sits that way for a moment, then he peels off his gloves and rubs his eyes with his palms. His exo facial assembly can’t become fatigued like human muscle and tissue, but his body senses touch almost the same way. Rubbing his eyes to soothe them doesn’t actually accomplish anything mechanically, but it feels good, so it helps.

“What are you going to do?” Geppetto asks.

“I will do just as I said. I will be a friend to this new Guardian, and give him whatever assistance I can.”

“Saint, I know you want to do the right thing, but I don’t think it’s fair of the Hunter to put you in this position.”

“There is no measuring and weighing of fairness when it comes to friends. If so, I would find myself heavily in his debt.”

“But that doesn’t mean you have to spend the rest of your life sacrificing yourself in his interest.”

“Does it not? He is the reason I have this life. How better should I use it?”

“I’m just saying, you’re so kind and you give so much to everyone. You have to take care of yourself, too, or there won’t be anything left to give.”

“I know. I know you are right.” Saint sighs heavily, then he looks up at her, with a more cheerful expression. “Maybe after the Trials, we will go and visit Ms. Bray on Mars for a while. Or help the young man they have put in charge of EDZ operations. I hear he is quite the marksman.”

Geppetto hovers closer, continuing to look worried. “I just want you to be happy, Saint. You deserve to be happy.”

“Thank you, Geppetto,” he says, with a smile in his voice that his face can’t produce. “You are very good to your stubborn old warhorse. Just give me time. I promise, I will be alright.”

Months pass in the space between breaths. If immortality makes one reckless, it makes one doubly heedless of time. Eli doesn’t notice any passing until one day, he realizes that he hasn’t worried about his former life for weeks, now. He finds he isn’t particularly disturbed by this. He knows nothing of that life or the person he was then, and he is just beginning to enjoy this one. The more time he has spent with his mentor and partner, in fact, the less eager he has become to confront the past he lost, or ask questions to which the answers may be devastating to his current happiness. And he is happy. He thinks if he and the Hunter could just keep doing this, he might be happy forever.

At first, they had made a pleasant routine of conducting patrols on the various planets and terraformed moons where the Vanguard has a presence. These simple tasks quickly became dull for Eli, who is about as talented a Hunter as they come, and as their overwhelming victories stacked up, the Hunter began taking on increasingly dangerous and difficult assignments with Eli by his side.

As the two have grown more fast in friendship, they have become exceptionally synchronized in combat. Like dance partners who have learned to anticipate one another’s movements and rhythms, each of them always aware of the other’s position and intentions, without needing to verbally communicate.

They cut bloody swathes through the remnants of the Red Legion in the EDZ, slaughtering throngs of enemy soldiers with terrifying ease, shatter a large part of the Hive’s stranglehold on Titan, and drive the Vex back from Mercury’s Lighthouse again and again. Individually, they are formidable, but together, they are unstoppable. Nothing can touch them. Until it does.

Underlying their comfortable friendship and ability as a team, Eli is becoming aware of something else. There is no one definite thing he can point to, but it reveals itself in many little ways. A hand offered to help the other up, and the grasp lingers a second too long. A propensity to inhabit the same physical space. The kind of intense, exclusionary eye contact that makes others feel invisible in their presence. Perhaps it is simply part of bonding as colleagues and friends, but sometimes…sometimes it feels like more than that.

Naturally, acknowledging to himself that their connection may be more than it appears to be, makes him aware that he wants it to be more. And once he has acknowledged that he wants it to be more, he becomes impatient to have what he wants. He is annoyed by this male impulse to pursue and possess the object of his desire, viewing it as a weakness of the sex in general, but he is only as strong as his nature has made him.

“You know what,” he says one night, when he and the Hunter are sitting in their accustomed spot atop the hangar. “I’ve never tasted wine, and I still have about ten bottles of it in my room. We are going to drink some of it.”

“Wine’s not really my thing,” the Hunter says, wrinkling his nose, which makes Eli laugh.

“Yes, I’m aware of how ill-mannered you are, but it wasn’t a request. You will come and help me drink one bottle, at least.”

The Hunter hesitates still. “I don’t know if that’s a great idea. Guardians and booze…things can get disastrous. Literally.”

Eli stands and holds out a hand, helping the Hunter to his feet. “Alright, no wine, if you want to be difficult about it. Just come to my room and fuck me.”

“I—just…what?” the Hunter sputters, blushing to the ears.

“I don’t understand your color change,” Eli frowns. “Is turning pink a human mating behavior? Like displaying plumage?”

“No, it’s—shut up!” the hunter laughs, turning even redder. “Don’t make me laugh, you asshole!”

Eli smiles and grabs the Hunter’s belt, pulling him close against his body. He feels the man’s heart pounding and his respiration coming quick and shallow. They are nearly the same height, and their faces almost touch at the forehead. Both the Hunter’s gloved hands come up and take him by the hips, holding him with almost bruising force.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he whispers hoarsely, squeezing his eyes shut. “You don’t know…what you’re doing to me.”

“I know what I’d like to be doing to you,” Eli murmurs, his voice as smooth and dark as black velvet. “I think you’d like it, too. Unless I’m wrong about you.”

“You know you’re not wrong. Why are you torturing me?”

“Offering you what you want is not torturing you.”

“It is. It is…if it’s you.”

Eli lets go of him and pulls away abruptly. “I thought we’d become friends. I thought you, at least, had forgiven me. But here is this thing again, that makes me a leper among you. And I don’t even know what it is!”

“No, Ul—Eli, no,” the Hunter says, stumbling over the name for some reason his friend does not understand. “You know that’s not it. It’s not you that’s the problem, it’s me.”

“Are you really playing the ‘it’s not you it’s me’ card?”

“No. It’s not what you think. I wish I could—not wish. I didn’t mean wish. I mean that I can’t. I just…I can’t.”

“I see,” Eli replies, his tone cool and level. “Then I’ve made a mistake. I apologize if I was too forward and made you uncomfortable.”

“What? No, of course you didn’t. Were you not listening to what I said?”

“I was. Some of it almost made sense. It’s late. I really should go, now.”

“Wait. Please don’t do that. I said everything wrong and fucked it all up. I didn’t mean—”

“I’m very tired, Hunter,” Eli interrupts, in that same calm, quiet tone. “I’m going to bed. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Eli, stop,” the Hunter says, taking him by the wrist. “You’re not going without letting me explain myself.”

Eli turns and looks at him. “Well?”

A flush rises into the Hunter’s face again, and he struggles with the words for a moment. “I—I want you. So much more than you know. But…if you knew exactly how far beneath you I am, you’d understand why I can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

“That’s the stupidest thing you’ve ever said,” Eli says flatly. “I want to have sex with you, not marry you. The only relevant criteria should be desire and ability.”

“You say that now, but think about—”

The Hunter’s mouth is stopped by Eli’s, who, having grown impatient of this stage in the drama, decides to move the scene along. Out of step or no, his partner adapts to his rhythm. His lips part and his tongue slides forward to find Eli’s, grasping his body with his strong hands, till finally, with a herculean act of will, he draws away, breathless and visibly shaken.

He tries to speak, but those brilliant, white-gold eyes take hold of his and he can form no words. Their mouths find each other again, as if drawn by magnetic force. He loses himself in the sensation, feeling Eli’s body, breathing his scent, tasting his mouth. Then something shifts and the kiss becomes desperate, ravenous, like some wild creature that has been straining at its chains, only to find they have snapped.

“Ghosts,” the Hunter calls out, once they are inside Eli’s room. Lis and Ghost materialize and wait politely. “I mean this as kindly as possible. Get lost.”

The Ghosts don’t have to be told twice. They pivot in unison and whir out the door, which opens and shuts for them, just as it does for full-sized people. Eli engages the lock function and they fall into his bed, which immediately collapses.

“I hate this bed, anyway,” he says, between breathless kisses.

He is so hard he physically aches, and the process of undressing seems like a cruel impediment, but eventually, they manage to pull off their armor and boots and trousers, and even get out of their shirts and underclothing without destroying any more furniture. Finally their naked skin is pressed against each other’s.

“This is…really stupid,” the Hunter pants. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“That would be more—ah! more convincing if you weren’t sucking my cock.”

“That’s why I waited till now to say it,” the Hunter grins, and swallows him again.

Eli wonders dreamily if being reborn removes one’s gag reflex, as he is sucked eagerly into the back of the man’s hot, wet throat. He groans and begins to buck his hips reflexively, grabbing hold of a handful of the Hunter’s white hair, then realizes he’s made a mistake.

“Wait, I’m—fuck…!” he cries out, a split second too late.

His cock convulses as he comes hard, spurting bursts of hot fluid into the Hunter’s mouth. To his surprise, the Hunter opens his throat and swallows it without hesitation, or even a grimace.

“I didn’t mean for that to happen so quickly,” Eli says apologetically. “It’s been…well, as long as I can remember.”

“Don’t worry about it,” the Hunter replies, pressing kisses to Eli’s stomach and chest. “That was just a warmup.”

“A warmup?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna make you come again before I do.”

Eli arches an eyebrow. “You’re very confident, Hunter. I wonder if you can back up that assertion.”

A long while later, when Eli is lying facedown on his mattress, legs spread obscenely, moaning and begging like a whore, while the Hunter tongue-fucks him into an agony of barely-denied release, he reflects on the folly of challenging a Guardian to anything. When the man finally pushes the blunt head of his cock into his throbbing, spit-slick hole, Eli thinks he might actually shed tears of relief.

Still, the Hunter moves with maddening deliberateness, sliding the thick, heavy shaft into him inch by inch, deeper and deeper, stretching him past the burn, past the pain and pleasure into something ascendant. Once he is firmly seated inside, he rocks his hips gently back and forth, till Eli is arching and straining desperately to get more friction. Then he pulls out abruptly and thrusts hard, slamming his hips against his ass.

Eli bites down on the mattress to stifle a wail and he plunges in again. And again and again. His hand comes around and takes firm hold of Eli’s cock, stroking it as he fucks him. Three or four more thrusts is all it takes and Eli comes like a geyser, thighs shaking, cock pulsing, spattering his dark grey blanket with faintly luminescent streaks. The Hunter hangs on to him and pistons his hips, pounding into him like a jackhammer, till suddenly he stops and goes rigid, holding his cock as deep as it can go. Eli feels it throbbing against his prostate, flooding his insides with slippery fluid. The Hunter collapses panting on top of him, pressing kisses to his neck and shoulders.

“So, uh…we fucked,” he says, as he rolls onto his back.

“Oh, is that what that was?” Eli asks thoughtfully. “Thank you for telling me. I wasn’t sure when you put your cock in me, or when you came inside me.”

“At least I didn’t make a mess,” the Hunter rejoins, patting the blanket between them, then holding his hand up to demonstrate. “Yours is all over—what…what the fuck? It glows?”

“If you call that glowing.”

“Eli, there is visible light coming from your—”

“Wait, you’re serious? You mean yours doesn’t?”

“Why would it?”

“Why wouldn’t it?”

“Because I don’t glow! Oh…well it makes sense, now that I say it out loud. Still. I can’t believe I never knew the Awoken had glow-in-the-dark spunk. You’d think that’s the kind of thing someone would’ve mentioned.”

“You haven’t been with one of us before?”

“Not a male. You didn’t know ours didn’t glow either, though, so you must never have been with a human.”

“I haven’t,” Eli says, widening his pale-gold eyes innocently. “I’ve never been with anyone before. I was a virgin till you.”

“You asshole,” the Hunter laughs, pulling him in for a kiss. “You’re not funny, you know.”

“Actually, that was sort of true. I haven’t been with anyone since Lis brought me back.”

“I don’t know when you’d have had time. You’ve been with me pretty much every moment.”

“Was that your plan? Monopolize me entirely and wait till I got desperate enough to fuck you?”

“Absolutely. Worked like a charm, too,” the Hunter says, crossing his arms triumphantly behind his head.

Eli lies on his side, looking him up and down. He reaches out and touches his chest, stroking the curly, silver hairs and prodding his rosy skin with his violet-blue fingertips, as if he is some kind of natural curiosity. He wonders idly why this human grows so much hair on his body, while his own appears to be limited to the scalp, brows, and eyelashes.

“You are strange,” he says musingly.

The Hunter opens an eye and squints at him. “Strange how? Is my dick weird?”

“Yes, it is, but I meant that you—”

“No, sorry, hold on. You can’t just say the dick thing and move right past it. Explain how it’s weird.”

“Well, it’s…you see how mine has this skin that protects it? Yours is missing.”

“Oh, that?” the Hunter laughs. “It’s not missing, I’m circumcised.”

Eli stares at him, horrified. “Circumcised?”

“It’s not that bad. In the time and place I probably came from, almost all male babies were.”

“Barbarians,” Eli mutters, moving over to lay his head on the Hunter’s chest.

The Hunter reaches up and strokes the velvety skin on his back, tracing one of the deep scars with his fingertips. “You want to try and fix this bed, or are you ok with floor-mattress?”

“Floor-mattress is preferable,” Eli yawns. “I sleep on the floor, anyway.”

After he’s sure Eli has drifted off, the Hunter wraps his arms around him and cranes his neck to press his lips to his silky, black and white hair. He lingers that way for a long while, breathing his scent and holding him close. Then, with a deep sigh, he lies back and closes his eyes.

When an urgent request for the Hunter’s assistance comes from the Regent Commander Petra Venj, Eli is elated. He has wanted to visit the Reef since before he joined the Vanguard, and this is finally an opportunity to see the place he once called home. The Hunter seems anxious and irritable, however, and at first, he forbids Eli from accompanying him, to which Eli strenuously objects.

When a second message arrives, regretting the fact that the Regent Commander will not be available to meet with him in person, and informing him that her agent in the Tangled Shore will be acting as liaison, he softens his position. Warning Eli of the danger of the place and of trusting anyone he meets there, he relents.

They land at a small shipping dock on what looks to Eli like assorted chunks of asteroid material and the jetsam of destroyed spacefaring vessels, lashed together with massive cables to create a sort of bizarre archipelago. The light from the system’s closest star, or whatever the source is, puts an eerie, purple cast on everything. Looking out across the barren, dust-swept plain, he sees a white tower, far away in the distance, impossibly tall and strangely out of place in this ugly wasteland.

“What’s that?” he asks the Hunter, pointing it out.

“An Awoken watchtower. The Tangled Shore is the gateway to the Reef, and they keep a pretty close eye on it.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Everything from the Reef is beautiful. Once we get down to Thieves’ Landing, I have to go and see someone. He’s jumpy and doesn’t trust other Guardians, so I have to do it alone.”

“Aren’t we here to meet someone, already?”

“Yeah, but this guy runs things around here, and if I don’t go pay my respects, we won’t get anything done. You and Lis should head to the saloon and wait for our contact in case he’s early, but I’ll be quick.”

They take a lift down to the landing, where they mount their Sparrows and part ways, the Hunter speeding off in one direction, and Eli in the other, making for the coordinates Lis has marked on his helmet display. He finds traversing the wide, dusty streets to be significantly easier than most of the terrain in which they usually find themselves entangled, and within a few minutes, they have arrived at the designated location.

The Hunter called it a saloon, but the place looks more like a junkyard, than anything. The haphazard contours of a structure are visible in it, but it appears to have been cobbled together from parts of existing buildings and the mangled remains of a ketch. The entry door is even the type used in such craft.

Inside, it is dim and dingy, lit by alkane lamps and a few ketch safety lights along the floor. The ceiling is low and dome shaped, and the air is thick with the odor of ether and some kind of burnt leaves. Sheets of metal plating have been welded into a sort of bar counter, which is situated along the back bulkhead.

In a dark corner close to the door, two Eliksni are huddled together at a table. They draw their hooded rags closer over their faces as he enters. At a table on the far right nearer to the bar, there are a few rough-looking mercenary types in threadbare cloaks and dust-covered armor, and helmets that still employ the old style rebreathers, with cylinder filters on both sides of the masks. They glance at him carelessly and return to their conversation.

Eli takes a seat at the bar. A withered, ancient-looking human woman behind it sets a small glass of some blue liquid before him, without greeting him or asking what he’ll have. He has no intention of drinking it, but he drops a few cubes of glimmer on the metal counter. She scoops them up and squints at them, looks back at him, and then turns hobbles away into the kitchen.

He hears a scrape of footsteps and glances in the direction of the noise. The two Eliksni are hurrying out the front door, which hisses shut behind them. Beneath his cloak, his hand drops to his hip and loosens his revolver in its holster. One of the dusty men has risen from the table, and comes to lean on the bar beside him, looking him up and down with his mask’s illuminated, yellow lenses.

“Good afternoon, sir,” Lis chirps, emerging to float above Eli’s shoulder. “What can we do for you?”

The mask turns toward him and the narrow lenses seem to be inspecting him closely.

“That shell is reefmade,” the man says, in a rough, grating voice. “Where did you get something like that?”

“It was a gift from the Awoken queen.”

The man and his friends laugh, but it is harsh and unpleasant. “The queen has been dead for years. Try again.”

“The queen gave it to me many years ago. I was far away from home, and she was very kind to me.”

“That doesn’t sound like her majesty to me, but what do I know,” the man rasps, turning the mask to look at Eli. “What is your business here, lightbearer?”

“We are in the Shore by leave of the Regent Commander, Petra Venj,” Lis replies again. “Unfortunately, we cannot discuss our business.”

The mask tilts menacingly. “Is that so, little light? What makes you think that name protects you here?”

Before Lis can answer, the man gives a sudden start as if he means to back away, but the barrel of Eli’s revolver is already digging into his neck beneath his chin. Wisely, he remains where he is and raises his hands.

“What makes you think I need protection anywhere,” Eli growls.

The man doesn’t answer. He draws the hammer back with a sharp click.

“Let him go,” the Hunter’s voice says from behind them.

Eli immediately lowers the revolver and steps back a pace. The man turns to face the Hunter, spreading his arms in a gesture of either welcome, or mockery. Judging from his tone, he intends the latter.

“Hello, Guardian,” he says, putting sneering emphasis on the word. “Still doing Petra’s dirty work, I see. I’d been expecting a blade in the back, but this will do just as well.”

The Hunter takes a step forward, but makes no move toward his weapons. “Does the Regent Commander know you speak treason so openly, Jolyon?”

“Treason?” The man repeats angrily. He drops the affected rasp and draws himself up to his full height, several inches above the Hunter. “You, a hired killer. A slayer of men far better than yourself. You accuse me of treason?”

 _Reefborn_ , Eli’s mind sings, in harmony with the music of the man’s voice. Why does he know this? He has no idea, but he is as certain of it as the air he breathes. Every tone and rest and rise and fall, every chord resonates with something deep and native in his being.

“I’m sorry,” the Hunter says, in his precise, human manner. “I didn’t know the truth. Not till it was too late.”

“Your hollow apologies won’t bring back my friend,” Jolyon spits, but his wrath is spent.

He is not naturally a confrontational man, and this ebullition appears to have exhausted him. He turns away and sits in a nearby chair, with his elbows resting heavily on the metal table. The Hunter seats himself in the chair to his left, and leans closer to speak in a lowered voice.

“Who’s he?” Jolyon asks, before he can begin, jerking his chin toward Eli. “What’s he doing here?”

“Someone I trust,” the Hunter answers. “I told whatever assistant reads Petra’s messages he’d be with me, but I guess they didn’t pass it along. He won’t get in the way.”

“In the way,” Jolyon scoffs. “I’m stuck playing nursemaid to lightbearers instead of doing my job, and you think it matters to me whether there are two or one of you?”

The Hunter pauses, regarding him closely from behind his mask. “I know you hate me, but you’ve never been this much of an asshole. What’s going on with you?”

Jolyon shakes his head, wringing his gloved hands together. The Hunter waits patiently.

“They took his…they took him,” he says at last, as if the words have been wrenched from his throat.

“Took who?”

“The prince. Desecrated our most hallowed place and took his body. Right from under our watchers’ eyes.”

“Who did?”

“No one saw them, and no trace was left to track them. Whoever they were, they were like ghosts. I investigated myself and found nothing.”

“When did this happen?”

“It’s been—it doesn’t matter. That’s not why you’re here. There’s a problem that the Regent Commander believes requires your specific expertise.”

“If I’m here, she thinks Fikrul has returned.”

“He has before.”

“His dark ether won’t—”

“I know. Don’t even say it. As of now, we don’t think the two things are linked, but who can tell how his mind works. He might be desperate enough to have cooked something else up.”

“It’s possible, but that still leaves the matter of how he would’ve got in. Even using the ether to travel, the Scorn aren’t exactly known for their stealth.”

“I’m aware, but the Regent Commander wants this looked into.”

The Hunter leans back with a resigned gesture and returns to his regular speaking volume, and thus this is the only part of the conversation Eli overhears. “If you want me to purge the Scorn all over the Shore and beyond, I’m happy to do it. But I don’t think it’ll help.”

“Think less and kill more, then,” Jolyon answers through his teeth. “That’s what you do best.”

“I don’t kill as indiscriminately as you’ve been lead to believe,” the Hunter says, rising to his feet. “Where am I going?”

“ _We_ are going to start at Quitter’s Well and work our way down the list of his old haunts,” Jolyon replies, also rising.

“I don’t need help dealing with Scorn. And if it is Fikrul, it’d be extremely unwise for you to be there.”

“Your objection is noted.”

“Come on, Jolyon. Don’t be stupid. Why would you put your life in danger when we can handle it?”

“I’ve been putting my life in danger every day for centuries, Guardian,” Jolyon answers flatly. “Do you think I do that not knowing that I only get one death?”

“No, I don’t. I’m sorry,” the Hunter says, sounding uncharacteristically chastised.

Jolyon signals to his men, who file out the door, then turns and waits for the Hunter to follow. The Hunter indicates that he needs a moment to confer with his colleague, to which Jolyon makes no response, but manages to convey his impatience very clearly as he walks out of the saloon.

“Our contact, I presume,” Eli says drily, once he’s gone. “Strange man.”

“He’s the best at what he does. I don’t question his methods.”

“He is not fond of you.”

“Noticed that, did you? Listen, he doesn’t like Guardians to begin with, but he’s especially volatile right now. Just keep your distance and don’t give him a reason to bite your head off.”

“If he dislikes us that much, why is he coming at all? I’m sure we can handle whatever it is.”

“I don’t know if he wants to or if he’s been ordered to, but either way, I can’t refuse him on his own turf. It looks like he’s coming whether we like it or not.”

“Alright, so what are we doing?”

“Something has gone missing and the Awoken want it back. Petra wants us to stir up whatever Scorn remnants are left in the Tangled Shore and see what shakes loose. We’re not going to find anything.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“This just…isn’t what the Scorn do,” the Hunter says, and for the first time since they’ve known each other, Eli is aware that he is lying.

Now his interest is piqued, and he pulls the thread. “But, that man Jolyon thinks they’re responsible. Do you not trust his judgment?”

“I’m doing what he asks. Trusting his judgement isn’t part of my job.”

“I see. You’re not fond of him, either.”

“You’re wrong. He’s a good man. One of the best I’ve ever met. But in this particular issue, I do not trust his judgement.”

“Are you going to tell me what this issue is, or are you going to keep talking around it, like I’m a child?”

The Hunter blinks behind his mask. He knows how sharp Eli is and he shouldn’t have been surprised by such directness, but he finds himself caught off-guard. There’s no reason to keep the general facts from him, though, and he knows it is his own unease with the situation that has lead him to do so.

“The thing that was stolen is the body of Jolyon’s friend,” he says. “A friend he thinks I killed. The situation is complicated, and I wouldn’t have dragged you into it, but Petra didn’t tell me he was going to be our contact.”

“Did you kill his friend?”

“No.”

“But you have some reason to let him think you did.”

“Yes.”

“I understand,” Eli says, not quite understanding, but too distracted to press the issue, at the moment. His mind has caught on this strange man, Jolyon, and his all his curiosity is currently directed that way. “So, where are we off to?”

“Scavenger den turned raider hideout called Quitter’s Well. Total shithole. You’ll love it.”

When they exit the saloon, they find Jolyon alone, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed on his chest. Resting against the wall beside him is a long, heavy, anti-materiel rifle that appears to have been plated with actual gold, for some inexplicable reason, and bears an odd symbol painted on the housing in orange and reef-purple. He pushes himself off the wall and slings the thing onto his back, and the three begin making their way down the dusty, windswept street together.

Instinctively, Eli lags a step or two behind, allowing the Hunter and Jolyon to walk side-by-side. They are very similar in build, though the Hunter is several inches shorter, and there is a likeness to their movement, as well. Something that speaks of agile strength, languid but ready, like hunting cats. Eli wonders idly what Jolyon’s face looks like, and if their skin is the same shade of pale blue. Then he becomes aware that the two are talking to each other, and snaps out of his own thoughts to listen.

“Can you call on the Void and make yourself invisible?” the Hunter is asking Jolyon. “Because if so, by all means, you take point.”

“You fucking showoff. Always have to be the most invisible guy in the room,” Jolyon replies, but his tone has changed drastically since they left the saloon, and has become easy and bantering. “Have it your way, then. You take point, but I’m not giving you cover fire until you’ve died at least once.”

“Fine with me,” the Hunter retorts. “You’d probably miss and kill me anyway.”

“That’s ridiculous. I’d never miss you.”

“You want to take a shot at me, you go ahead. But don’t expect me to come right back and save your ass after you compromise your own position.”

“I’m sure your friend wouldn’t let me die,” Jolyon says, looking back at Eli. “Would you, uh…other Guardian?”

“His name’s Eli,” the Hunter answers. “And no, unfortunately, he wouldn’t. Guardians have to do whatever they can to protect the living. Even pompous jackasses who think far too highly of their marksmanship skills.”

Jolyon laughs at this and the sound hits Eli like the hot sparks from a children’s firework baton. Sharp and poignant and blindingly bright. It almost makes him want to cry. Just hearing the man talk has already been working on his mind, like the echoed strain of some piece of music you can never quite remember, only that its beauty haunts you afterward. This must be his own Reefborn origin recognizing its native accent.

As he listens to his two companions bicker back and forth, he begins to wonder how much of the apparent acrimony between them has been put on for the benefit of others that may be observing them. Whatever the relationship is between these men, it clearly has more history than the Hunter had revealed. There is an obvious rapport between them, like comrades at arms meeting after a long time apart, and falling easily into an old, familiar mode of communication. Maybe they worked together and became close before that misunderstanding over who killed whose friend. The Hunter did say the man was one of the best he’d ever known.

Before they reach Quitter’s Well, one of Jolyon’s men hails him over his comms and informs him the location has been thoroughly scouted. They are welcome to search the place if they feel like wasting a half hour, but it is empty and has apparently been so for some time. Jolyon mutters an oath and relays this information to the Hunter.

“We’d better check it out anyway,” the Hunter says. “Something useful may have been left behind.”

Jolyon nods. “Agreed. Since there won’t be a fight, your man here can stand sentry while we take a look around. No sense in having three pairs of boots trampling on potential clues.”

Eli’s indignation at being dismissed this way flares up hot, but he swallows it and keeps his mouth shut. It is logical to have one of the trio stand guard, and it makes sense that it would be the one who ranks lowest and has the least experience tracking. As they leave him near the entrance, the Hunter squeezes his hand by way of thanks or apology, and he all but forgets his annoyance.

To Eli, the place looks exactly like the saloon, except bigger and underground. Cobbled together from ugly, Eliksni architecture and technology, broken bits of machinery and other detritus lying about everywhere, and a thick layer of dust on everything. While the Hunter and Jolyon are inside, he climbs up and sits on a high walkway overlooking the entrance, where he occupies himself in thinking about how long a shower he’ll have to take to get all the dust off himself.

His companions return after what seems like an unnecessarily protracted length of time, and the three hop on their Sparrows to head to their next objective. They spend several more hours trekking about this miserable wasteland, trying other spots with more or less the same result, then Jolyon calls halt for the day and departs, saying he’ll meet the Hunter tomorrow for more of the ‘nonstop thrill ride.’

Eli notices he hasn’t been included in this, but isn’t really surprised. The man has barely spoken to him all day, and when he has tossed a word or two in his direction, has persisted in calling him ‘other Guardian,’ rather than his name. He decides he finds this man Jolyon intensely irritating, and thinks about his arrogance and his stupid jokes during the entire flight back to the Tower. And keeps thinking about him, even after he’s bathed and eaten.

“There are seventy-one Awoken men named Jolyon in Vanguard databases,” Lis says, hovering above Eli, who is sprawled out on his floor-mattress.

“Wonderful,” Eli grouses. “Any snipers?”

“One elite sniper.”

“What—really?” he asks, sitting bolt-upright. “Who is he?”

“Jolyon Till. Recognized for breaking numerous marksmanship records, including his own, for long-range confirmed kills. He is currently the commander of the Awoken intelligence and espionage unit known as the Crows.”

“That’s our man,” Eli says eagerly. “That—uh. That arrogant ass. I want to know everything about him.”

“Unfortunately, there is not much,” Lis says, bringing up the display apologetically. “This is the only information the Vanguard has on record for him.”

The file Lis has brought up is brief, indeed. Aside from what he read aloud, it states the man’s height and weight, eye, skin, and hair color, relevant skills, and spoken languages. It does contain a photograph, however, which Eli studies with keen interest. Jolyon Till the elite sniper and conceited unfunny jackass is uncommonly handsome. His skin is closer to the violet than the blue spectrum, which places him in a different genetic line than Eli’s, and his wavy hair is a rich, dark brown.

Brown hair is extremely rare among Awoken, and when added to his exceptional good looks, must have made him a sought-after breeding partner, at one time. Eli isn’t sure why he thinks of that in the past-tense, only that he has some idea that Awoken men of this age are past the period in which they are expected to take on procreative duties. Although…the file does not state his age. He frowns.

“Anything else at all? Known associations? Is he mentioned in other people’s records?”

“Nothing that I can access. His position as an intelligence agent would likely put records that mention him, if there are any, out of our clearance level.”

“What about for the Crows?”

“Even less. This is the entire page.”

“Assisted the Vanguard…formerly led by…what about Prince Uldren Sov?”

Lis scans his files for a moment. “Nothing at all. Since his death, all records pertaining to him have been sealed, by order of the Vanguard Commander.”

“All of them? Wasn’t he sort of a public figure?”

“Yes. He was a great hero of the Awoken people. He was lost in the Taken war, but he returned and I heard he would likely claim the throne. Then he died unexpectedly.”

“How?”

“I do not know the circumstances. Whatever it was, it occurred before I returned with you, and I have never thought to ask anyone.”

“Strange,” Eli says, biting his lip thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose Jolyon Till operated under any code-names or pseudonyms that we may be able to search?”

“I do not know. That would be nearly impossible to assess.”

“Damn it, why are spies so…secretive,” Eli sighs, flopping back onto his mattress. “It makes it very difficult to pry into their personal affairs.”

“If you are curious about this man, you could ask him to tell you about himself.”

“On what pretext? That I’m interviewing elite snipers for a research paper?”

“You could be honest,” Lis offers. “I find honesty is most often the best policy.”

“That’s lovely, but I can’t just walk up to him and say, ‘Hey Jolyon, remember me? You were incredibly rude to me and I’m pretty sure I hate you, but I’m curious about you, so please drop what you’re doing and tell me all your secrets.’ I would sound like a lunatic.”

“When people are curious about other people in this way, they usually ask the person to engage in a social activity with them. Like a meal, or a walk in the City Botanical Gardens.”

“Lis, you’re talking about a date. I do not want to ask him out on a date.”

“Oh. I misunderstood, then. I apologize.”

“We only met today and he was a complete ass and ignored me the entire time. I didn’t even see his face till just now in the photo, and he’s never seen mine.”

“You are expending quite a bit of energy trying to find out about this man, who you say you do not like, when you could ask the Hunter about him.”

“He’s been acting weird since we got to the Shore. There’s something going on and he’s only telling me bits and pieces of it. I want to find out what it is on my own.”

“Is that why you are so interested in Jolyon Till? Because the Hunter doesn’t want you to know something about him?”

“No, that’s…not entirely it. I just don’t like being kept in the dark and treated like a fragile flower. I’m perfectly capable of handling myself.”

“But, Guardian, do you not think that if the Hunter wants to protect you from something, that there may be a good reason? Like, for example, that the thing may be very dangerous?”

“Aw, Lis, are you worried about me?”

“Yes. I am. I worry about you all the time. Though, I do worry less when you are with the Hunter. It broke my heart when you were alone out there, with no one but me to look out for you. I feared you would never let yourself be cared for by anyone else.”

“You’re so good to me. I wish—oops. Hunter says never to wish or dragons will get you. I meant to say I would kiss you, if you’d let me. Right on top of your little flower-shaped head.”

“It is not my head, it is my whole…me,” Lis replies, unable to hide his delight at being so doted upon by his Guardian. “But I would not object.”

“Come here, then,” Eli laughs.

Lis floats dutifully over, and Eli cranes his neck and presses his lips to the top of the Ghost’s glossy, purple shell.

“I love you, Lis,” he says softly. “Promise you’ll never leave me.”

“Never!” Lis exclaims, horrorstruck at the very idea. “You are my Guardian and I am your Ghost. We belong to each other.”

“Yes, we do. Oh, I just had an idea. How would you like to help me test my tracking skills?”

“I, uh…”

“Excellent, let’s go.”

“Here,” Eli says, crouching down to examine a patch of dusty ground. “They’ve disguised their boot-prints by blending them in with all the Eliksni prints and vehicle tracks. But look at this crescent shape. This is the indentation of a heel tread that wasn’t fully erased.”

Lis floats over and scans the depression with his white eye-beam. “I can extrapolate the dimensions of the footprint from this, but not much more.”

“That’ll be enough. Scan the surrounding area for anything that matches those dimensions.”

“There is something that fits. That way, twenty meters.” He leads Eli to the spot and they inspect the mark. “This print matches the first. It is the exact same print, actually.”

“Hm. I don’t like that. Error should produce variation. This may be a lure.”

“There is another,” Lis says, indicating to a spot fifteen meters distant.

They go over and scan it, and find the third identical to the first two.

“So, this trail has been left intentionally to lead someone somewhere, but who and to where?” Eli muses. “And by whom? I assumed the tracks belonged to the Crows because of the humanoid boot tread, but I’m not so certain now.”

“We do not have to keep following it, then,” Lis says, sounding relieved. “Since it is leading to what may be a trap.”

“Who’s to say the trap wasn’t laid by friendly hands? If it was, maybe it caught something interesting. If not, isn’t it my duty to go and investigate anyway? Others could fall into such a snare.”

“Perhaps, but you really should not be here alone, Guardian. The Hunter said—”

“I know, he’ll be angry and say I’m putting myself in danger. But I’m a Guardian, the same as he is. No one else is subjected to that kind of supervision.”

“He also may not like that you are so interested in this other man.”

“Why would he care about that?” Eli says distractedly, still examining the tracks on the ground.

“I have observed that people are sometimes hurt when the person they love is interested in another person.”

“Wait—what? No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong. He doesn’t…feel that way about me. That’s ridiculous.”

“Oh. I suppose you would know better than me. The tracks continue through there.” Lis points his scanning beam at a spot another twenty meters or so away, where the path begins to curve around a wall of blasted, black rock into a large tunnel. “Please be careful, Guardian. There are regular Fallen patrols in this area, and we do not know how many Scorn are still hiding on the Tangled Shore.”

“Of course I’ll be careful. I just want to do a little recon.”

Lis disappears somewhere on his person and Eli doubles back, taking the path to where he thinks he saw a good spot to climb up. He is agile and strong, as has no difficulty scaling the rough, igneous rocks. Once on the crest of the formation, he stays low and keeps his movements irregular, to replicate the ordinary shifts in nighttime shadows.

He moves along this way till he comes to a break in the rocks, which affords a good vantage point from which to con the area. He can see down into the tunnel, but it is fairly dark inside. A few ether lamps scattered here and there dimly illuminate old hauler crates, and the smashed remnants of various machines that hang about in tattered cargo nets. There is no sign of movement at all.

He waits a while, watching and listening. When he is satisfied the immediate area is deserted, he slips through the gap and drops the fifty feet or so to the hard-packed dirt floor, where he lands as nimbly and silently as a cat. Lis pops out and scans the area, transmitting the results to his helmet display, before vanishing again. The scan reveals an irregularity in the rock formation, about ten meters down in the direction he’s facing.

Sure enough, it is a vertical gap in the rocks, concealed naturally by the curve of the tunnel. This gap opens into a narrower tunnel branching off from the main one, that veers right and vanishes around a corner. Keeping close to the wall, Eli begins to creep along this passage, all senses on high alert for any sign of danger. Up ahead, he can discern a small light source, but he can’t tell what it is until he reaches the bend and peeks around.

It looks like one of the Hunter’s light sticks at first, but is actually a thin, cylindrical tube made of glass or crystal, producing illumination independent of an external power source. It is beautiful, and oddly out of place in this literal hole in the wall, in an unsettled territory full of outlaws. He resists the urge to reach out and touch it, and instead takes the opportunity to inspect the path.

It appears to have been used recently, but there are no distinct prints, due to the shallowness of the sand scattered about on the bedrock. The middle isn’t completely clear of sand and dust, meaning that the recent use has not been regular, but some of the stones that make up the walls have been worn smooth, which suggests that this place had seen frequent traffic at some point.

A bit further on, there is a steep ledge that he has to jump down, then the rocky ground gives way to a dark, sandy soil. The air is fresher down here, and there are even green plants about, somehow clinging to subterranean life. From here, the passage opens up, becoming wider and higher, with smaller passages branching off. He keeps to the main one, moving deeper into the cave. Finally the tunnel curves around and approaches a larger chamber, with some manner of illumination emanating from it.

Here, he diverges from the main path, slipping deftly down a smaller one, that seems to be leading upward. He is certain he spotted the shadow of something moving in the main chamber, and wants to get a look at it from above, where he is less likely to be observed. As he’d hoped, the passage opens on a long ledge, running across the back of the main chamber, and all the way across to a similar passage opening. The ledge is stacked all about with crates and assorted jetsam, providing convenient cover for a Hunter who wishes to avoid being seen by his quarry.

Crouching low, he creeps in behind the cargo and searches for a gap from which to observe. A few feet away he finds a space between two containers that is hung over with a net, but not otherwise obscured. He moves cautiously into position and peers down through the woven straps. The source of illumination is a fuel-burning fire, in the center of the large chamber. There is an iron spit over it, and it is ringed with various crates and flat stones, like improvised seating. There is no one visible near the fire, but they can’t be far. It is roaring and bright and has been recently fed.

He looks up to see where the smoke is vented from the chamber, but he never finds out. Several pairs of hands are on him at once, incapacitating his legs and arms first, before he can strike out or get hold of a weapon. They aren’t quite the size of ogre’s hands, but they are inhumanly large, and squeeze his flesh with wicked, griping strength.

One of them tears off his helmet as he thrashes, and a thick cloud of sickly, blue-black smoke billows up all around him, choking him with its noxious fumes. Half-blinded and gagging on the horrid smoke, he struggles impotently, aware that the effort is in vain. It all happened so quickly, he hadn’t got a chance to fight back, which was wise on their part. He reflects very briefly on this as his vision fades entirely, and he is plunged into blackness.

Some indeterminate length of time later, he is drawn slowly back to his senses by the feeling of heat on his face, and a bright, warm-colored light beating on his eyelids. His muddled brain thinks it must be the sun, until he recalls exactly where he’d been and what had happened. He is lying on a cold, stone floor before a fire, which must be the one in the main chamber.

He struggles to a sitting position, blinking blearily in the firelight. He is not bound and nothing has been taken but his helmet and weapons. There doesn’t appear to be anyone around, either. Why is he not being guarded? If they were going to kill him they would have, and if they considered him a threat, he’d be under guard. But then why take his weapons? Just then, he spies movement from the corner of his eye, and realizes with an icy chill that he is not so alone as he thought.

On the other side of the fire, in the deep shadows outside the ring of light, there is an enormous, hulking figure. He can make nothing out but its general size and an impression of its shape, but he can feel its gaze as palpably as if it had reached out and touched him. Seeing that there is nothing else to be done, he gets to his feet and dusts himself off, then turns to face it.

“Well?” he says.

The creature emits a gurgling sound that may be a growl, or may be its natural respiration. Then it, too, rises. And keeps rising. Eli stares in undisguised awe as it unfurls its towering body and takes a step into the firelight. The thing is more than twice his height and many, many times his mass. It is Eliksni, or appears to be, but there is something wrong with it. Eliksni skin is normally dark grey, but this creature’s skin is a pallid, waxy hue, closer to that of human flesh.

Its bulging, enormous muscles seem to have torn out of its skin in some places. Some have hardened like scales, but some are fresh and bleeding blue ether. Most notably the knees, which look painful and grotesque. Wherever they are not armored, there are leather straps and heavy chains wound about its massive limbs, as if it has been tethering its own sinews together.

In one of its clawed, three-fingered hands, it holds a heavy spear, with a jagged tip that sparks and glows with blue light, and its face is covered entirely by its immense, oddly shaped helmet, which is tilted down toward him. He gazes back up at it in fascination, more than fear.

“So…father,” the creature rumbles, in its strained, guttural voice. “You have…returned.”


	3. Part Three: The Fanatic

Eli blinks up at the creature, confused by its use of the word ‘father’ to refer to himself. He then realizes it probably used a formal Eliksni term of address, and it’s gotten garbled by his translator. Then he re-realizes that he doesn’t have his helmet on, and the creature has spoken to him in Earth English. This also explains the mistranslation, but still does not give him any hint of what the Eliksni goliath could want with him. He remains silent, which he has found to be the wisest course of action when one doesn’t know what to say.

The creature approaches with a heavy, uneven step and crouches before the fire, not looking at him. He can hear the pain in its movements and its labored breaths, and feels a strange upwelling of sympathy for it. He watches it with undisguised fascination, as it lays down the iron spear and holds out its four hands, warming them over the dancing flames.

“It does not…remember…Fikrul,” it says, and there is something akin to grief in its throaty growl.

“Fikrul,” Eli repeats. “That’s your name?”

“Father…father,” the giant mourns, clearly not addressing him. “This dead thing…it wears your face. It does not know Fikrul.”

Eli takes a step closer. “You know me.”

“I will give it…its final death,” Fikrul murmurs, still to himself. “Give your body to the abyss. Then…you will rest.”

“If you’re going to kill me, you could at least tell me who I was before I died the first time,” Eli points out, not appearing the least bit perturbed by the threat on his life. “It would only be fair to let me know.”

Fikrul ignores this, hissing something under his breath in his own tongue. Eli seats himself cross-legged on an ammunition crate facing him and rests his elbows on his knees.

“You’re different from other Eliksni,” he says, after a moment. “You were brought back from death, too. How?”

Fikrul growls, low in his throat. “Lightbearers killed me. Father…saved me. Gave me dark ether. Power to raise the Fallen. Stronger. Better…than before. To drive them out. Take back what is ours.”

“I gave you power?”

“Not you, dead thing,” Fikrul sneers. “You are lightbearer. Empty. Toy…on strings.”

“I don’t feel like a toy on strings,” Eli says, holding out his arms to look at them, as if he might discover these metaphorical filaments. “Maybe I just can’t see them. As far as I can tell, I wasn’t given any choice in all this.”

“No choice. Murdered by lightbearer. Returned by lightmaker.” Fikrul points upward with a claw. “By it.”

“A Guardian…killed me?”

“Eia.”

Eli’s heart drops into his stomach and he swallows hard, in a suddenly dry throat. His entire being revolts, but he asks the question anyway. “Which Guardian?”

“Sloaat iirsoveks,” Fikrul rumbles, clenching his fist. His razor-tipped claws dig into his palm, and blue ether trickles down his arm. “The one that murdered my brothers…my sisters. He has…no name. Only Hunter.”

This last word, when it is spoken, hits Eli like a heavy blow. He does not hear it. He only feels it fall upon him; a cold, dead weight. Murdered by his only friend. His lover. The man who has fought by his side, held him in his arms…the man who has been inside him, so many times. These things cut his comprehension to ribbons and leave it lying at his feet—fill his mind with blood and horror, and fathomless grief. He watches an ember fly upward from the fire, whirl about in the air, and wink out. 

“Vas diszaar. Ne sook dosnan,” he says, getting up and taking Fikrul’s huge hand in both of his.

He has no idea where these words came from, or what prompted him to lay hands on the creature, but apparently he speaks Eliksni and has no instinct for self-preservation. Fikrul gives a start at the touch, but doesn’t pull away. Nor does he resist as Eli gently pulls his fingers apart, revealing two deep punctures in the palm. Without thinking, Eli lays his own gloved hand over the wounds.

Almost immediately, he gives a sharp gasp and tries to yank himself away, but he can’t move. That thick, blue-black vapor that choked him earlier is rising from Fikrul’s palm where he is touching him, curling out in wispy tendrils between his fingers. He looks up at Fikrul’s mask, but the creature appears to be as paralyzed as he is. His fingers are freezing and going numb as the bilious vapor spills over Fikrul’s palm, but something else is happening. Eli watches, dumbfounded, as the gashes begin to close. Before his eyes, the torn skin knits itself together till no trace of the wounds is left. Then his hand drops like a dead weight at his side.

“What—what was that?” he pants. “What happened?”

“This was father’s power,” Fikrul answers, speaking in Eliksni, and far more eloquent in his native tongue. “But this power is not of the Light. The ether is of the other.”

Eli is beginning to shiver and hugs his arm against his chest. “What does that mean?”

Fikrul shakes his head slowly. “You wield the Darkness and the Light, also. It should not be possible, but…I have seen it myself.”

“Why am I s—so cold?” Eli asks, his teeth actually chattering now.

Fikrul reaches out and lifts Eli’s arm. Peeling off the glove, he turns his hand over and prods it. It is completely numb. The entire arm is numb, in fact, up to the elbow. There is some feeling in the upper part, but it is chilled to the bone all the way to the shoulder, and Eli can’t move it.

“The dark ether requires blood for blood,” Fikrul says. “You gave life to restore mine. It will regenerate, but we must warm you. Prevent permanent damage to nerves and tissue.”

Eli thinks he’ll likely regenerate just fine with or without being warmed, but at the moment, he is almost desperate to feel anything other than the sick, ugly knot of pain in his gut—to think of anything other than his lover’s unforgivable betrayal. He wonders what healing arts Fikrul’s kind practice among themselves, and whether such techniques will do more harm than good to his non-Eliksni flesh, but that matters little to him now.

Fikrul lifts his head and makes a loud sound, halfway between a shriek and a whistle, and more creatures like him come hurrying into the chamber. They are smaller than he is, not more than seven feet in height, and they appear to be profoundly afraid of Eli. Fikrul barks things at them that roughly translate to water, linens, and fever-flower, and they scramble away to carry out his orders.

When they have gone, he motions for Eli to come closer, which he does, and with astonishing dexterity for one with only three large, clawed fingers on each of his four hands, he carefully unfastens Eli’s chest piece. He lifts it away and sets it on a crate, along with his gloves and gauntlets, then helps him remove his black base-layer shirt, lifting the dead arm so he can pull it off over his head.

By the time his top half is undressed, the other Eliksni-adjacent creatures have returned with a steel pot full of water, a pile of clean, bright-yellow strips of linen, and a leather pouch roughly the size of a knapsack, from which a pungent, intensely spicy aroma emanates. It reminds Eli of something he cannot remember, and fills him with a wistful, melancholy feeling.

While the pot is heating on the fire, Fikrul reaches into the pouch and removes a pinch (a fistful for a man Eli’s size) of what looks like giant saffron threads, except they are vibrant magenta in color. These, he places in a strip of the yellow fabric, which he rolls up, then draws the ends together, tying them tightly to make a bundle. He puts his bare hand on the steel pot, and apparently judging that the temperature is correct, dunks the bundle into the steaming water.

Eli watches all this with absorbed interest, thinking that Fikrul must have extremely heat-tolerant skin, and wondering how his own compares. Fikrul has drawn the dripping bundle from the pot and is rolling it in his palm, apparently waiting for it to cool to a suitable temperature. The others, meanwhile, have spread out about the room and are pretending to be occupied with various tasks, observing Eli warily all the while, as if he is a bomb that might suddenly go off.

“Closer to fire. Stay warm,” Fikrul grunts in the Earth tongue. “You must hold this.”

Eli understands immediately that he is speaking the language for privacy, because his followers do not understand it. He almost smiles. This strikes him as a very personal and endearing revelation regarding he and Fikrul’s relationship before his death. He moves closer to the fire, though his torso is already uncomfortably warm, and holds out his good hand. Fikrul shakes his gigantic head and lifts Eli’s numb hand, placing the bundle in his palm, then closing it tightly within his own.

Brilliant magenta fluid seeps out between his fingers and splashes onto the stone floor, like a technicolor negative of Fikrul’s ether blood. At first, Eli feels nothing at all. Then that spicy herbal scent begins to waft up from the bundle. At once, deep pinprick sensations shoot through his hand, making him start and curse.

“You must hold on,” Fikrul warns. “Try.”

“I _am_ trying,” Eli snarls through gritted teeth, as the pain intensifies. “Fuck—it hurts!”

His body jolts reflexively at each stab of pain, but Fikrul’s iron-hard grasp keeps his hand exactly as it is, firmly squeezing the bundle. Gradually, the stabbing needles subside into gritty tingling, and he notices that sensation has begun to return to his fingers. When he can grip the bundle on his own, Fikrul makes another, with which he bathes Eli’s arm and shoulder.

The water is likely hot enough to have actually burned a human, but Eli is Awoken and a Guardian, and only feels the warmth, racing deep into muscle and bone, rapidly soothing the aching chill. Within a few minutes, the cold and numbness are gone, and he has full use of the arm and hand back. His skin is stained bright pink from shoulder to fingertips, but he considers the tradeoff to be well worth it.

“You must…take care,” Fikrul rasps, inspecting the pink-streaked arm attentively. “You are not of the ether. I will die. I will return. Such is our way. Your flesh…harder to restore.”

“My Ghost heals me all the time,” Eli answers, matter-of-factly. “He brings me back when I get myself killed, too. He’s very useful.”

The Eliksni colossus turns away, looking deeply wounded, even behind his mask. Not in a mood to be put off, however, Eli steps around in front of him.

“Why does it cause you death-grief, that this was done to me?” he asks, switching back to Eliksni. “I will die and I will return, like you. Only not from the ether.”

Fikrul continues in Earth English, attempting to keep the gates barred between them. “The Great Machine took your mind. Made you into…not you. Gave you power, so you may destroy us.”

“No. I don’t believe that. I lost my memory when I was resurrected, but I decide who and what I want to be now.” Fikrul tries to turn away again, but Eli takes hold of his helmet with both hands, pulling his huge head down, so their faces are nearly level with one another. His pale-gold eyes flash bright and fierce. “If you don’t believe I’m still your father, then you can’t trust me. You can’t let me leave this place. You must give me my final death.”

Fikrul visibly recoils, but Eli yanks him back down, holding him where he is.

“No…father,” he pleads. “I cannot—”

“Choose, Fikrul,” Eli commands. “I won’t fight you. Kill me or tell me who I am.”

“To know will cause you pain,” Fikrul says wearily. “Will not bring your mind back.”

“I am already in pain! Can’t you see that? I am alone!” Eli releases him and bares his teeth, dashing away tears of grief and rage that blur his vision. “The other Guardians hate me so that I can’t show my face among them. My only friend, the man I let myself love, is the man who killed me. He dares to look me in the face, every day—to share my bed, knowing he murdered me! I will make him pay for what he did to me!”

“Your teeth are sharp,” Fikrul says in Eliksni. “To act in haste may be to bite your own tongue.”

“What should I do, then? Suffer this betrayal in silence? Hide myself away forever? Tell me!”

“You have power, but your enemies are many. You must wait. Seek allies. Walk in the shadows.”

“I don’t want allies. I don’t want to wait. I’m so tired of shadows.”

“What do you want, father?”

“Justice.”

“Justice without the consent of your kind…outside their laws…this is called revenge.”

“Then I want revenge.”

“No. What you want…is what you wanted before. The thing that drove you always. You are strong. A great warrior of much blood-honor. And yet you live outcast…forsaken by your people. Your teeth are sharp with hunger, not with hate.”

“Hunger for what?”

“Loyalty. Devotion. To be loved as you love.”

Eli gazes up at him, then takes his massive hand and presses it to his cheek and his lips. “Fikrul, you’re the only person I’ve met since I returned who hasn’t lied to me. Whoever I was, I am humbled by your loyalty. I hope I have earned it.”

Fikrul shakes his head. “No, father. No talk of earning between us. Loyal, always.”

“We should—we should leave this place. It isn’t safe here, for either of us. The Awoken and the Vanguard have been looking for you all over the Shore.”

“They know already, where I am.”

“What? How?” Eli asks, taken aback.

“You have shown them.”

“No. No, you know I couldn’t have. I’ve been right here with you. I don’t even have the comms system in my helmet.”

“Your ship will bring them to the Shore. Your small machine will lead them here. They will find its signal. Even now, they are coming for you.”

“But they’ll kill you! You have to get out of here!”

“My Scorn are hidden in many places. They will not be found so easily. It is too late for me.”

“Fikrul, don’t say that,” Eli pleads. “We can run. I can help you. You can’t let them—”

“No, father,” Fikrul interrupts calmly. “I will die. I will return. This is our way.”

“When? When will you return?”

“Cannot know. Months. Years. Time means little to us, now.”

“But you’ll find me, won’t you? I will see you again?”

“We will meet again,” Fikrul says, drawing away and standing to his full height. “But you may come as an enemy. We are no longer of one kind, lightbearer. Revenge is not what you seek, but it is what I seek. My teeth are sharp for blood.”

“Draw what blood you will. I will never be your enemy, Fikrul.”

Eli holds out his hand and Fikrul reaches out to take it, but if they meet, Eli never feels it. He only feels the weight of a thousand tons of stone, as the entire cave comes crashing down on them, shattering their bones and obliterating their bodies. And even this, he only feels briefly. Of all the deaths he has experienced, this is one of the least physically painful. He hadn’t even heard the sound of the impact as the stone-burning fusillade struck home.

The next thing he feels is the icy shock of reintegration, as Lis reconstructs his body in the biting wind and dry, dead cold outside the now collapsed cave network. The moment air comes rushing into his newly constructed lungs, he dashes madly for the still-smoking rubble, screaming in blind, unreasoning anguish for the death of his friend. Before he is aware that anyone else is present, impossibly strong hands have caught both his arms and hold him restrained. He struggles frantically, not understanding at first what has stopped him so suddenly, then he realizes the nature of his situation, and blinks up at his captors through his tears.

He recognizes them both, but his mind stalls in attempting to process their presence here, which makes absolutely no sense to him. One is the legendary exo Titan Saint-14, who he knows in passing from the hangar, where he sees him feeding his pigeons, and from the words of the Hunter, who speaks of him often. The other is the leader of the Vanguard, Commander Zavala.

“Commander? Why—why are you here?” Eli falters. “What’s going on?”

“We are here for you,” Commander Zavala answers, in his forebearant, fatherly tone. “Apologies for the…dramatic entrance. Saint-14 believed it to be the most efficient way to deal with the hostiles all at once, without putting more lives in danger.”

Eli looks at the Titan’s helmeted face, then back at the Commander. “How did you find me? Why were you looking?”

“You left the Tower without your partner last night. When you did not return, we followed your ship’s tracking beacon here, where we were able to locate you via your Ghost’s energy signature.”

“But, sir, why were _you_ looking? Why would the greatest Titan of all time and the Vanguard Commander come to rescue a single Guardian? Unless…you have some reason to think I would resist. And that I’m dangerous.”

“It is alright, Eli,” Saint-14 says, in his deep, soothing voice. “You are among friends. We are only here to help you.”

“Then why are you—why are you still holding me?” Eli demands, beginning to panic from the sensation of being restrained, and becoming suddenly short of breath. “Where’s the Hunter? Someone tell me what the fuck is going on!”

“The Hunter was forbidden to interfere in this situation,” Commander Zavala replies tranquilly. “We had no way of knowing what to expect. I did not wish him to be present if things became complicated.”

“In case you had to kill me, you mean.”

“Yes.”

Tears of anger and humiliation burn in Eli’s eyes and he hangs his head sullenly. Just then, he hears the scrape of a footstep on the hard, dusty ground behind him, and a pair of beautiful, finely crafted boots walk around to stand in front of him. He has never seen a Guardian wear anything like them, and he can’t help but look up to see who is the owner of such remarkable footwear.

She is a tall Awoken woman, with one illuminated blue eye and one black eyepatch, and vibrant, burgundy-colored hair worn in a bizarre style. She is dressed in what appears to be military regalia, with a bright yellow badge of office glowing on the lapel. The way she is looking at him, with her face so full of sorrow and pity, makes him physically sick. He wants to take that knife from her belt and gut her.

“The individual who was holding you captive is called Fikrul the Fanatic,” she says, in a husky, resonant voice. “He is the leader of a terrorist organization known as the Scorn, responsible for the murder of the Hunter Vanguard, along with a number of other attacks on our people.”

“I wasn’t being held captive,” Eli says through his teeth. “And I know what the Scorn are.”

“What happened to your arm?” she asks, taking no notice of the remark.

He realizes then, that he is still without chest armor, shirt, or helmet, but he refuses to be ashamed by his state of undress. He stares at her stone-faced and makes no answer. If he’s to be a prisoner, they can interrogate him like one. At a gesture from the woman, however, Commander Zavala and Saint-14 release his arms.

“You must be cold, my friend,” Saint-14 says.

Eli turns to see that he is holding out a heavy, fur-lined cloak. Despite his indignation, he allows the Titan to wrap the cloak around his shoulders, if only to expose as little of himself to this woman’s invasive eyes as he can.

“Do you know me?” she asks, peering closely into his face.

“Your badge would make you the Regent Commander,” he replies impatiently. “Have I broken some law? I believed we had permission to be here. I wouldn’t have—what…what’s wrong?”

The woman has turned away abruptly, brushing away a tear that suddenly welled up and rolled down her cheek. Eli is utterly at a loss. Why would the woman who leads the entire Awoken nation weep at a cross word from him?

He looks pleadingly up at Saint-14. “What did I say? I don’t understand.”

“It is nothing you said,” Saint answers, laying a hand on Eli’s shoulder. “This is…extraordinary situation. Perhaps you should tell us what happened.”

Saint-14’s strong presence, coupled with his kind voice and manner, soothes Eli somewhat, and he feels more inclined to cooperate with him than this strange woman with her overbearing pity and inexplicable weeping.

“The Hunter and I were here on an assignment,” he says, turning to speak to Saint, as if she isn’t there. “We met a man the Hunter said was our contact, and the three of us went searching for Scorn. We didn’t find anything, but I was curious about this place, so I came back to look around on my own. I found that cave and Fikrul’s men caught me in there and knocked me out. They took my weapons, but my armor and shirt are gone because Fikrul was using some Eliksni herb to heal me. That’s why my arm is pink, too.”

“Fikrul the Fanatic was healing you?” Saint-14 asks, visibly surprised. “How did this happen?”

“He intended to kill me, at first. He said as much. But he hurt his hand, and I touched it and did something to it that healed him. He told me it was dark ether. That it was his father’s power. Whatever it was, it froze my arm, so he bathed it in hot water and that pink herb.”

“What else did he say to you?” Commander Zavala asks, stepping forward again.

“I think he was my friend, before I died. He kept calling me father. He said I brought him back from death using the dark ether, and that I gave him the power to raise the Fallen.”

“Nothing else?”

Eli opens his mouth, then hesitates. _That a Guardian killed me. Not just any Guardian, my only friend. The man I love. The man I loved._ “No. The cave collapsed before we could talk any more.”

“Guardian, you don’t remember me now, but I was your friend, a long time ago,” the woman says stiffly. “Due in part to this incident, Commander Zavala has agreed to allow something that is very extraordinary for a Guardian. If you will also agree to it, that is.”

Eli looks back and forth between the two Commanders. “Agree to what?”

“Petra believes you should be told who you were,” Commander Zavala answers. “It is highly unorthodox and may be dangerous to do so, but you are in danger already. This incident with the Fanatic is evidence enough of that. Just be aware, if you choose to learn the details of your past identity, and I believe you pose any threat to the Vanguard or to the safety of the people we are sworn to protect, I will put you down myself.”

Eli gazes into his fierce, blue eyes, trembling with cold he does not feel. “Everyone already hates me. If I’m so dangerous, why not end my miserable life now?”

“No one is going to do that, so put it out of your mind,” the Commander replies flatly. “Whether you find out or not is your choice. You may take time to decide, of course. But because of the complicated nature of your situation, your off-post duties will be curtailed until the matter is settled.”

“I see.” Eli turns away, blinking against the scouring dust. He knows from Fikrul that one of these Guardians killed him. Then they killed Fikrul. But Commander Zavala is a good man, despite all of that. Saint-14, as well. He knows it with absolute certainty. He looks at the Commander again. “What do you think I should do?”

Commander Zavala shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Eli. Only you can make a decision like this.”

“Knowing who I was…it’s all I thought I wanted since I woke up in this horrible world. But I was starting to find my way. If I could’ve just stayed with the Hunter and never—” bitter bile chokes the words in his throat. “But that’s not how things work, is it. He didn’t even come with you.”

“He wanted to be here, Eli,” Saint-14 says reassuringly. “We had quite a bit of trouble making him stay away. But I promised him I would look out for you, and I will not leave your side until I know you are safe.”

Eli takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. “I…I want to know. I need to know. That’s it. That’s my decision.”

“Very well,” Commander Zavala says, dipping his chin. “Saint-14 and the Regent Commander will escort you to the Dreaming City, where the details of your previous identity will be clarified for you. I will be in communication with the Regent Commander, and I will expect you to report within twenty-four hours to notify me of your intentions from that point. Good luck, Eli.”

Eli finds his Commander’s response painfully cold, and feels cruelly jarred by all the things that are happening at once. Learning of his lover’s betrayal. Finding a friend who knew who he was, and losing him just as abruptly. This seems to be the pattern, though. Ever since he was resurrected, he has done nothing but be knocked around by outside forces, kept in the dark by people who are supposed to be his friends, and told what to do by everyone. Maybe the revelation of his true identity will change that, for better or worse.

He and Saint-14 follow the Regent Commander, with her small detail of elite guards, to a waiting Vestian cruiser, which uncloaks as they draw near to it. When they climb aboard, he sits beside the Titan, who has now become the closest thing he has to a friend, and tries to prepare himself to see the Dreaming City. He would have liked to be excited about it, but he can’t help feeling as if he is being escorted to his own funeral. If it were not for Saint-14, he would be sure this had all been a ruse to take him somewhere and kill him, or imprison him forever.

As the ship glides noiselessly into the black expanse of space, his mind is filled with thoughts of the strange Eliksni giant who had been so gentle to him, and who all these others call a terrorist. The compassion he’d shown him, and the love he obviously had for him. He hopes Fikrul didn’t believe he’d ever betray him, at the end. If he had time to believe anything in the seconds before they were crushed to death together.

He pulls the hood of the fur-lined cloak low over his face, not wanting to be seen weeping. Lis pops out and scans him concernedly, but Eli doesn’t look up or acknowledge him. After a moment, Saint-14’s big, steel-covered arm curls around his shoulders and gives him a comforting squeeze. Mentally and physically exhausted far beyond his capacity, Eli leans gratefully into him, feeling very much like a child in the Titan’s strong embrace.

The Dreaming City is more beautiful than Eli could have imagined. Its soaring, white towers and glittering silver spires, the sea of gentle mists surrounding it, the intricately carved opaline stone that forms the walks and structures, with accents of purple and blue crystal, all trimmed with gold. He understands, suddenly, the origin of that piece of silk fabric he had kept so carefully and guarded from being destroyed in the wild. It is folded neatly in a drawer in his room at the Tower, now. He may never see it again.

From the landing pad in what appears to be a watchtower, like the one he had seen from the Shore, the party pass through a massive archway to a tree-lined walk, which stretches out far above the expanse of city, all immaculate and shining white. Eli is astounded by the sheer size of the structures, with their vaulted ceilings, solemn silence, and tapestry-hung walls. The majesty of the place is dizzying, and almost frightening.

In a cavernous, cathedral-like building, the Regent Commander tells him a room has been prepared for him, where he will have an opportunity to rest and bathe and change clothing, before they proceed. After Eli assures him he will be fine on his own, Saint-14 agrees to go with the Regent Commander, and they leave him in the care of two monastically robed female attendants.

These silent women escort Eli to the aforementioned room, which he finds is actually a series of luxuriously appointed chambers. The main suite has a wide window opening on a terrace, with golden-leafed trees and white stone benches, and a spectacular view. On one side of this room, there is a door leading to a bedchamber that is three times the size of his entire quarters at the Tower, and on the other, a door to a spacious bathing and dressing room.

He enters the bathing room first, where he discovers an oversized, white-stone bath tub. It has been filled with steaming water, apparently in anticipation of his arrival, and there are delicate, bright pink flower petals floating all over the surface. Eli sheds his clothing immediately and steps into it, sinking beneath the water and letting it close over his head, enveloping him in warm, soothing silence.

After a few minutes, it occurs to him that that he has no idea how long he can hold his breath. After a few more minutes, his lungs have still not begun to burn for oxygen. After several more, he gives up the exercise, reminding himself that this is not the time for playing at such childish things. On the side of the bath, he finds bottles containing various liquids. They all smell divine, but he can’t tell what they are, so he chooses the one that makes lather when he rubs it between his hands, and sets about washing his hair and body.

When his bath cannot reasonably be drawn out any longer, he steps out onto a plush, dark-purple rug and dries himself with the softest, fluffiest towel he has ever touched. He squeezes it in his hands and enjoys the texture of the fabric as he goes into the dressing area. No one told him he’d find clothing here, but clothing there is, and boots as well. He pulls on the crimson trousers and white linen tunic, then the black riding boots. It doesn’t occur to him to find anything strange about the fact that they all fit as if they were made for him, until he draws out the cloak that was hanging beside them.

He recognizes it immediately. It is missing the fading and wear and travel stains, but otherwise, it is identical to the cloak he woke up in. The same cowled neck, the same gold clasps, the same pattern of strange little symbols embroidered all over it. He holds it for a long moment, staring at it as if he will somehow be able to read some deep mystery written in it, but no epiphany is forthcoming, so he swings it over his shoulders and fastens the clasp.

His dressing complete, he turns and looks himself up and down in the long mirror. He looks…underdressed. He has always worn armor since he woke all those months ago, and he finds it strange to be so lightly clad, and with no weapons. Of course, he can use fire, or lightning, or the Void to create weapons at will, but he is not used to being otherwise unarmed, and feels oddly vulnerable.

Without thinking, he opens a drawer in the dressing table, and is surprised to find a short, ivory-handled dagger, with a loop in the leather sheath to be fastened on a belt. He reaches out and touches it with his fingertips. Clothing is one thing, but there is no way such an ornate and beautiful weapon was left here for his use. He stares at it for a few more seconds, then shuts the drawer without taking it, and goes back out into the main room.

In the doorway, he stops short with a start. There is a very large shotgun with a flaming barrel leveled at his head. The man holding it is tall and dressed in fine, black-leather armor, with the same symbol from his cloak emblazoned on the chest plate in gold. His black helmet has a glowing red visor and covers his face entirely.

“Jolyon Till,” Eli says, raising his hands, to signal his intent to cooperate.

“I had to see…I had to see for myself.” Jolyon’s beautiful, Reefborn voice is strained and hollow.

“They told me I knew you,” Eli says slowly, in the Awoken tongue. He would step closer, but the shotgun stands between them, in Jolyon’s shaking hands. “They told me we were friends.”

“How dare you!” Jolyon roars, advancing suddenly to press the barrel into his chest. “How dare you wear his face! You monster! You dead thing!”

Four hot needles of pain sear Eli’s skin through his shirt, at the four points where the flames emanate from little metal tubes.

“I’m sorry.”

“No you’re not! You don’t care! You don’t even know who he was! You’re a mindless drone in the hollowed out body of my—my…”

Eli takes hold of the scorching barrel of the shotgun with both hands, and despite Jolyon’s attempt to resist, moves it into place directly over his heart.

“If you’re going to shoot me, please aim for the heart,” he says softly. “Dying hurts, a lot.”

The visor of Jolyon’s mask stares at him for a beat, then he drops the shotgun and sits down hard on the floor. Tearing off his helmet, he hurls it against the wall, then buries his head in his hands. His shaggy, dark-brown hair falls over his face. It’s longer than it was in the photograph, and there are silver threads in it now, darting through its tumultuous waves like shooting stars.

Eli kicks the shotgun across the carpet onto the marble floor, to prevent the whole place catching fire, then sits down beside him. This Jolyon is a far different man from the glib, self-assured sniper he’d been alternately fascinated and infuriated by yesterday. There is much more in him now of the wounded man he’d briefly revealed in the saloon. Jolyon lifts his head at last, wiping his cheeks with the back of his gloved hand and taking deep, ragged breaths.

“I feel the same way,” Eli says. “Crying helps, sometimes.”

Jolyon’s perfect lip curls. “You don’t know how I feel, lightbearer.”

“Angry. Confused. Betrayed, lost, alone, hopeless…let me know when any of those sounds familiar.”

“Stop. Stop it. You’re not him. Stop pretending you are.”

“I’m only being myself,” Eli shrugs. “I can’t help it if I’m the same man, even without my memory.”

“The Uldren I knew would have swallowed hot coals before he fucked a Guardian,” Jolyon answers bitterly.

No one has spoken this name to Eli yet. So that is the secret. This terrible thing no one will say to his face. He is the dead prince of the Awoken. The one Lis said had been expected to take the throne. The man who was Jolyon Till’s commander and friend. His head bows under the weight of it. At the same time, a chill races up his spine. This is the name that fits him exactly. It belongs to him, like these clothes, which he can only assume had already belonged to him, too. He feels crushed by it, but wrapped up in it and comforted by it, also. He realizes he is being silent too long.

“The Uldren you knew wasn’t a Guardian, so that makes sense,” he says, keeping his voice admirably steady, considering how hard he is shaking inside.

Jolyon looks him in the face at last. Eli’s chest constricts suddenly, so that he can hardly breathe. Those piercing, brilliant blue eyes—the most beautiful eyes he has ever seen. Narrow but long, rather intelligent, with thick black lashes. But there is something haunted and broken in them. Something that reminds him of his own.

“Do you love him?” Jolyon asks.

“I thought I did. But he lied to me. He’s the one who killed me and he never even—” Eli breaks off and his brow furrows. “Wait…was I that friend? The one you thought he killed?”

“Yes. Because he did.”

“No. No, that doesn’t make sense. I asked if he’d killed your friend and he said no. He wasn’t lying.”

“How can you—nevermind. You always knew. No one could lie to you but her.”

“Who?”

“Your sister, the queen. Who else?”

“Not even Petra Venj?”

“Especially not Petra. She’s got a poker face like…I don’t know. A really bad poker player. But if the Hunter didn’t kill you, then why did he let me think he did? Why did he let me act like such an asshole about it all this time?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t talk to me about it.”

“Wait. I do know the reason,” Jolyon sighs. “If it wasn’t the Hunter who killed you, it was Petra. He must’ve been protecting her.”

“But why?”

“If I’d known it was her, I would’ve taken my fucking Crows and left this light-forsaken asteroid belt for good. I’m not the only one. Her authority is already tentative at best, and if our people knew she’d killed the prince, traitor or no, it would be used by the ecclesia to question the legitimacy of her position. That could create devastating instability. We are at war. We can’t afford rifts between our military and civil leadership.”

“So, that’s why he let you believe it was him. He had to let you hate him for the greater good.”

“It appears so.”

“That’s honorable of him, but it doesn’t change anything between him and me. He knew who I was and he never told me. I can’t think of any instance in which he technically told an outright lie, but he was never _not_ lying to me. He kissed me and held me…when we fucked, he looked into my eyes like I was the only man in the world, and all that time, he was keeping that from me. Keeping _myself_ from me. I can’t forgive him for that.”

“Uldren, listen…I know you’re angry and hurt, but the Hunter is one of the best men I’ve ever known. If he was keeping things from you, he probably had good reasons. I’m not saying he wasn’t wrong, I’m just saying you should hear him out before you decide whether you can forgive him.”

“Funny. He said the same thing about you.”

“Which part?”

“That you’re one of the best men he’s ever known.”

“Obviously,” Jolyon says, with a little toss of his head. “I’m one of the best men _anyone’s_ ever known.”

Eli rolls his eyes. “You know, that’s not as charming as you think it is.”

“It is, though,” Jolyon grins.

“Even if I could forgive the Hunter…I don’t know if I love him the way he loves me. I don’t know if I’m even capable of the kind of love he needs. He’s so young and I feel…so old, somehow. Does that make sense?”

“Yes. You feel old because you’re really fucking old. Do you not know?”

“No. No one has told me anything. I didn’t even know my name until you said it, a few minutes ago.”

Jolyon’s eyes go wide. “They hadn’t told you yet? Petra’s gonna fucking kill me. They probably had some elaborate plan to let you know gradually so you wouldn’t go into shock or something.”

“Well, I didn’t, so I think I’ll be ok.”

“Are you sure? Maybe your dusty old brain just hasn’t caught up yet.”

“Fuck you!” Eli laughs. “I’m not that old, though, am I? You’re making it sound like I’m ancient.”

Jolyon winces. “Is…twenty years older than the entire history of our people ancient, to you?”

“That’s—that’s millennia,” Eli stammers, clutching Jolyon’s arm as if to support himself. “I think I might vomit.”

Jolyon makes a face. “I guess if you want to be dramatic about it. Hanging around with Guardians has ruined your language. The Uldren I knew would never even _say_ the word ‘vomit’.”

“You just told me I’m older than a whole civilization, you want to cut me some slack? Speaking of which, how old are you? The Vanguard don’t have it in their file.”

“What were you doing looking at my Vanguard file?”

“Oh, it was nothing weird, I promise. I was annoyed that you weren’t interested in me at all, so I needed to find out as much about you as possible, in order to gain the upper hand in the interaction.”

Jolyon squints at him suspiciously. “You haven’t changed as much as I’d expect for a man who’s died and been reborn with his memory erased. It…it really is you, isn’t it.”

Eli rubs his hands together anxiously. “I don’t know. I think so. Lis told me that Guardians are chosen because of who they were in life. We lose our memory, but everything else about us stays the same. So, technically I am still the man you knew.”

“But you don’t remember anything? At all?”

“Nothing. Not even you, which I…cannot believe.”

Jolyon looks away. “That isn’t new. Before you died, when Petra and Cayde-6 brought you to the Prison of Elders, you didn’t recognize me then, either.”

“The Prison of Elders? What is that? Why was I brought there?”

“Then…you really don’t have any idea what you did.”

“No. I only know what I got from speaking to Fikrul, which wasn’t much more than his own perspective.”

“Fucking—Fikrul?” Jolyon sputters. “The most wanted terrorist in the Reef, and you just…spoke to him?”

“Yes. He thinks I’m his father, Jolyon, how would speaking to him even be an issue for me?”

“I don’t know!” Jolyon says, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “Maybe because we’ve been turning the place inside-out every time there’s even a rumor of him for the past two years and have only managed to find him once?”

Eli smirks. “It’s not my fault you’re terrible at your job.”

“Listen, you cocky little—” Jolyon begins to retort, then he breaks off and bursts out laughing. Eli can’t help but laugh, too, which makes Jolyon’s eyes well up with tears again.

“Oh, no—I’m so sorry,” Eli says hastily. “I keep making people cry and not knowing what I did.”

“It’s not your fault,” Jolyon sniffles, wiping his face with his gloved hand. “Just—I haven’t heard you laugh in years. I never thought I would again. This is hard for me, to see you this way. I thought you were dead. Then you _were_ dead. But the truth is…you were lost a long time before you died. If you don’t remember, consider it a mercy. I would almost become a Guardian myself, if I could forget.”

Eli senses a well of darkness in these words, so deep it terrifies him, and he backs quickly away from the topic. “Did I really murder the Hunter Vanguard? I heard a rumor, but all the prince’s records were sealed.”

“You did, but you were out of your mind. To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure he didn’t have it coming, anyway. I never liked him or his fucking loud mouth. He was brash, flippant, disrespectful to you and the queen, and he only ever cared what was in it for himself.”

“How could a man like that be made the Hunter Vanguard?” Eli frowns. “Commander Zavala is so honorable and good.”

“He is, but he was chosen by other good and honorable men. Cayde-6 was appointed after losing a wager they call the Vanguard dare. I don’t know all the details, but apparently the one who failed to kill some wanted Fallen archon or something had to accept the position. Come to think of it…that is interesting.”

“What is?”

“Well, the terms of Cayde’s Vanguard dare were common knowledge. He told everyone about it. He named the next Hunter Vanguard to be whoever killed him.”

Eli’s pale-blue face goes almost white. “There’s…there’s no way they’d expect me to—”

“No, of course not. I’m sure they wouldn’t. What if it had been a Hive god or…a Taken abomination that killed him? They couldn’t hold them to those terms and they can’t hold you.”

“Right. I wasn’t even a Guardian then. And I was insane.”

“Completely. You disappeared for years, then showed up here looking like half a Fallen raider, accused pretty much everyone of imprisoning the queen somewhere, and then took off with the Scorned Barons. After they brought you in, you were always talking to her, like she was there with you. ”

“The queen. My…my sister,” Eli says slowly, still trying to get used to this bizarre idea.

“Your twin sister. Everyone said it must have been her death that broke your mind.”

“Do you think that?”

Jolyon pauses for a split second before he answers. “No. Grief doesn’t cause hallucinations and total dissociation. Even grief as extraordinary as yours for her.”

“Extraordinary?”

“You were very devoted to your sister. You loved her more than…anyone else. When we believed you’d both died in the battle against Oryx’s hordes, some said it was better that way. That her death would have destroyed you. I didn’t believe it, but I didn’t believe you were dead, either. Not till years passed without a word. Then I thought you must be, because you’d never abandon us that way.”

As Jolyon is saying this, Eli reaches out and casually brushes a strand of hair back from his forehead. Jolyon doesn’t react at all, and keeps right on speaking, as if this is something he does all the time.

Eli’s throat aches with a sudden upwelling of grief. How strong this man must be. To have endured all the years of separation and uncertainty, and have been so steadfastly loyal to the one he loved. And to have this as his return for his sacrifice. An empty shell with his beloved’s face, who can’t remember the thousand little joys and sorrows that had made up their shared lives. Whoever Uldren Sov really was, Eli hopes he was worthy of this man’s love. Hopes he will be again.

“…hadn’t been for the fact that they’d never found your ship, the rumors would have been ignored,” Jolyon is saying. He pauses and frowns. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Why did you stay loyal to me. To Uldren. After everything I put you through?”

“Because I loved you,” Jolyon answers frankly. “You were my commander and my prince. And you were my closest friend.”

“Then I want to remember,” Eli says, laying his hand on Jolyon’s. “I want to remember you.”

Jolyon turns his hand over and their fingers lace together, almost unconsciously. There are tears in both their eyes, but they make no effort to conceal them this time. Using his purchase on his hand, Eli pulls his friend into a tight embrace. Jolyon leans into him and buries his face in the crook of Eli’s neck, shaking with silent sobs. They remain that way, long after the tears have exhausted themselves, simply being silent and breathing, and feeling one another’s presence.

“I’m afraid,” Eli whispers, still holding onto Jolyon. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. As far as our people know, I’m a traitor and a madman. And now a lightbearer, too. I’m afraid they’re going to hate me just as much as the Guardians do.”

“They won’t. Petra will set everything right. Your name will be cleared and you’ll come back and be our prince again.”

“What if that’s not how it works? What if all the horrible things I did really were my fault, and they want to kill me or throw me back in prison.”

“If that were the case, Petra wouldn’t have brought you here. And even if it were, I’d never let that happen.”

“And if the Vanguard won’t let me go?”

“Look at me.” Jolyon lays his hands on Eli’s shoulders. “I don’t care what I have to do or where I have to go, even if it’s to that Tower with all those idiot Guardians. I am not losing you a third time.”

“What if…what if I never remember you?”

A hint of a smile curls the corner of Jolyon’s lips. “Then I’ll just have to make you fall in love with me all over again. And I will. Count on it.”

“Wow,” Eli breathes, looking into his magnificent blue eyes. “You are so…unbelievably arrogant.”

“Oh, am I?” Jolyon laughs.

“Yeah. I thought you were a prick the other day, but you are seriously full of yourself. You just assume you can—what are you…doing?”

“Being arrogant.”

Jolyon’s mouth covers Eli’s with a soft, longing kiss, that makes his heart run ragged and his stomach do flips, like a Sparrow careening off a tree at full speed. His hands come up on their own and his fingers bury themselves in his thick, wavy hair. Jolyon’s arms coil around him and pull him tightly against his chest. Far too soon, he draws away, laughing at Eli’s huff of protest.

“I know you’ve still got things to work out with the Hunter, but I don’t care about that,” he says, looking down at their clasped hands. “I never cared who you were fucking. Just say you’ll come back to me.”

“He’ll…be hurt. He really does love me.”

“Damn it. Now I kind of wish he had killed you. Stealing you back from him was going to be so much easier when I had a good reason to keep hating him.”

“It wasn’t, and you didn’t really hate him. After you two put on your little show at the saloon, you were like best friends. I was there, if you don’t recall. You ignored me all day.”

Jolyon raises his eyebrows. “I ignored you? You didn’t say a single word to me!”

“I never speak directly to anyone, if I can help it. I don’t want people recognizing my voice and hating me.”

“How was I supposed to know that? I thought you were just a Guardian elitist, or something, and didn’t want anything to do with us mortals. And that wasn’t a show, at the saloon. When the Hunter isn’t around, I get angrier and angrier until I’m sure I’ll hate him forever this time. Then as soon as I have to look at his stupid, sweet face, I just lose all my steam and we’re friends again in five minutes.”

Eli nods. “He’s like that. I’ve yet to meet anyone who isn’t halfway in love with him. Except Saint-14, who is all the way in love with him.”

“I think even I am, a little. What is it about him? He’s not even that handsome. Or especially charming.”

“He’s not you, but he is handsome. And he has a kind of…blundering charm. Maybe it’s that. Maybe everyone loves him because he seems totally oblivious to sex and romance. I mean, I’m beautiful, and I had to practically drag him into bed.”

“Did you?” Jolyon laughs.

“I did. He kept saying it wouldn’t be right because he was unworthy of me. Which I suppose makes more sense now.”

“Well, I don’t want to get between you, if he makes you happy. But I’ll wait for you, for as long as it takes. Or…maybe we can drag him into bed together.”

Eli opens his mouth to answer, but at that moment, there is a knock at the door. The two hop up and Eli calls out to the visitor to give him a moment, while Jolyon collects his shotgun and replaces his helmet on his head.

“I assume this is how you got in here,” Eli says, nodding toward the open terrace window. “But how did you know where I’d be?”

“Please,” Jolyon scoffs. “I’m the head of Awoken special intelligence, I always know where everyone is. I’ll see you later and we’ll talk more. Good luck with Petra. And try to act surprised when they tell you.”

“I will, now go, you ass!”

Jolyon salutes jauntily and vanishes out the window, then Eli straightens his clothing and goes to answer the door.

The same silent, cloistral attendants usher him out of his room and lead him down the broad corridor to a long flight of stairs. At the bottom of these stairs, they cross another open-air walkway to yet another tower, a few levels lower than the one he’d been in. Inside, the structure consists of a huge, round chamber with a domed ceiling, a staircase spiraling up around its perimeter, and a strange, whirling device in the center, that looks like a three-story-high animated model of the Sol system. Saint-14 and Petra Venj are waiting here, along with two women dressed in what appear to be more ornate versions of his attendants’ robes. Between these women is a pedestal with a glowing, gold-hued crystal sitting atop it. Eli wonders if this is some sort of arcane Awoken artifact, and what its purpose might be.

“Eli, my friend!” Saint-14 booms cheerfully. “You look very much refreshed. How are you feeling?”

“I—uh…much better, thank you,” Eli answers.

“You look well,” Petra says, bowing briskly. “These are the queen’s techeuns and trusted advisors, Sedia and Shuro-Chi. If you don’t object, they will be here to assist with the process. It should be simple enough, but they were present when the crystal was created, so it would be best to keep them close.”

“What process?” Eli asks, confused. “That crystal?”

“I apologize. I’d forgotten you wouldn’t be familiar with any of this,” Petra replies, with another half-bow. “This is called a crystallized memory. It doesn’t contain any actual information, but it has the power to restore what is lost. It’s much larger and more powerful than is normally permitted, but the queen created this one herself, for you.”

Eli shakes his head. “For me? Why?”

“I am not qualified to speak to her reasons. I only know she gave me very specific instructions regarding its keeping and use. I can tell you what it will do, however. In fact, I am obligated to tell you, since you may wish to refuse, and this must be your choice.”

“I see,” Eli says, not seeing at all. “So…what does it do?”

“Its resonance is keyed specifically to a harmonic signal embedded in a much smaller crystal in your Ghost’s shell. When your Ghost scans it, this crystal will be destroyed, and its energy will be transferred to you. If the queen is correct, this should completely restore your memory.”

Eli’s limbs go cold and numb. “What does my Ghost’s shell have to do with this? I thought…I thought I was only going to be told who I was. You want to put all my memories back inside my head?”

“I am simply relaying the queen’s wishes. However, since you are a lightbearer and can access the ascendant plane, she has—you have been invited to speak with her yourself, before you make a decision.”

“The queen died, though, didn’t she? I don’t understand any of this.”

“The ascendant plane is where powerful beings go when their physical bodies are destroyed,” Saint-14 explains. “Since we are bound to the Light, Guardians can go there without dying first.”

“Traversal of the ascendant plane can be dangerous, even for a lightbearer,” Petra adds. “But the queen’s portal leads to a relatively safe part of her throne world. Your friend the Hunter has visited her there, many times.”

“Do you think I should go, Saint?” Eli asks. “To speak to the queen, before I decide?”

“I think you should do what your heart tells you, my friend,” Saint-14 answers solemnly. “No matter which path you choose, I will stay by your side as long as you want me.”

Eli looks away out the window, struggling to process this new development. The idea of recovering the memories of millennia of existence terrifies him to his core. Will he lose the self he knows, in exchange for the burdens of a man he doesn’t know? This fear is equally opposed, however, by his fervent desire to know the full truth of who he was. To remember Jolyon Till, with whom he has already fallen in love, if he is being honest with himself. And this Awoken queen…if she is really his twin sister, then he should see her and hear her opinion. It would only be right. Right?

“I will see the queen,” he says at last, as firmly as he can manage. “How, uh…how do I do that?”

“Sedia and Shuro-Chi will activate the Oracle Engine and open the portal for you,” Petra answers. “Time does not pass the same way in the queen’s throne world, so you may return to our plane immediately after you departed, or many hours from now, no matter how long you actually stay.”

Eli only nods in response, wishing to get this over with before he loses his nerve.

“Would you like me to accompany you, my friend?” Saint-14 offers.

“No. No, thank you,” Eli says bravely. “I’ll be alright on my own.”

With that, the two hooded women lead him up the stairs to a landing, on the third tier of the tower. He stands awkwardly by while they raise their hands and chant some incantation, then the wildly spinning engine begins to slow, and its movements become more smooth and rhythmic. One of the planets moves into place before the landing and stops altogether, like a stepping stone. Behind it, there is a blinding flash, and what looks like a round window made of starlight appears in the center of the engine.

“The queen awaits,” one of the techeuns says, as both bow and gesture toward the portal.

Eli takes a deep breath to steel his courage, then steps across the platform into the wall of light. For a disorienting moment, he thinks he’s stepped into outer space, but his feet are on something solid, so that can’t be true. As his eyes adjust to the much lower illumination, he sees that he is standing on what appears to be a massive, floating balcony, surrounded by nothing but a black sky, filled with thousands of impossible stars.

At the far end of this balcony, upon a dais, is a towering silver throne. Its back stands at least ten meters in height and is comprised of two hooked semicircles, with a smaller sphere in the center. The seat of the throne is made to a more human scale, and upon it, is the strangest looking woman he has ever seen. She has wild, white-blonde hair and glowing pale-blue eyes, far too large for her face. There is something unsettlingly catlike or reptilian in every aspect of her appearance. She is lounging languidly, an elbow on one arm of her throne and her legs propped up on the other.

Seeing him, she beckons, but does not rise. Eli obeys, with heavy, suddenly reluctant steps. Something in his mind is screaming at him to run for his life, to get out now—get as far from this woman as he can and flee from the very rumor of her approach, lest he be torn apart by the sheer force of her presence. But she has him in her gaze, and he is powerless to stop his treacherous feet carrying him to meet her. Within arm’s reach of the throne, he stops and his body kneels before her, against his own will.

“Our dear brother,” she says, in a crooning, sing-song voice, as if she is mocking him. “You have returned at last. How we have missed you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eliksionary
> 
> Sloaat iirsoveks: Sloaat means something vile or disgusting, iirsoveks is just an Eliksni curse word
> 
> Eia: Yes 
> 
> Vas diszaar. Ne sook dosnan.: You are bleeding. I will help/heal you.
> 
> Eliksni translations adapted based on the work of the wonderful scholars at the Ishtar Collective


	4. Part Four: The Rachis

For the past three days, the Hunter has been absolutely beside himself with anxiety for his friend, and has been driving his Ghost nearly to distraction with his pacing and fretting. Finally fed up, Ghost orders him in no uncertain terms to get out of the house and go to the Tower, where he can at least annoy other people for a while. As usual, the Hunter grumbles about being ordered around, and also as usual, does as his Ghost tells him. The other people he has been told to annoy turn out to be his Huntress friend Karja, who catches him in the Bazaar and is eager to tell him about her latest assignment, clearing a Hive nest with one of the Vanguard’s Eliksni allies from the House of Light.

“You did a mission with Mithrax?” he asks distractedly, as he seats himself across the table from her.

“No, Hunter, why would the Kell go on a routine extermination?” she laughs. “His name is Ryksis. A Captain.”

“Oh, really? That sounds interesting.”

Karja arches a black eyebrow. “Does it? Because you look the way I look when Master Rahool is explaining his deep passion for cryptograms to me.”

“Hm? Shit. I’m sorry, Karja,” the Hunter says, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “I don’t mean to be an asshole. I’m just really worried about Eli.”

“Eli…your little pal with the cute ass who never takes his helmet off?”

“Yeah, that’s—wait, cute ass? Is that all men are to you?”

“Pretty much. Why are you worried about him?”

“He’s on a sort of solo mission right now. It’s dangerous and I just…I’m worried.”

“He’s a Guardian too, Hunter. Whatever it is, I’m sure he’ll be ok. Unless he did something to piss off Shin Malphur.”

“Shin Malphur? Oh, did he send you a bunch of threatening messages, too?”

“Just one. I responded with some very colorful descriptions of what I’d do to him if we ever met, but he hasn’t written back yet. Fingers crossed!”

“Do to him, like, sexy or hurty?”

“Honestly, he could take it either way.”

“Karja, I swear to the Traveler, if you get into a fight with Shin—”

“Relax, you big baby. I can take care of myself. I might not be down for playtime if he comes around, anyway.”

The Hunter crosses his arms. “Ok, who are you and what have you done with the real Karja?”

“The real Karja’s in la-la land, babe. Got her brains fucked thoroughly out. She may never come back.”

“On your mission with—” the Hunter’s eyes go wide. “Wait. Tell me you did not fuck that Eliksni Captain, because I can’t handle that kind of shock right now. You did. Oh my god, you did.”

She shrugs. “Are you really that surprised?”

“No, but I had fun pretending. Tell me everything immediately. In elaborate detail.”

“Well, I met him at the House of Light Ketch, and he was—”

“Wait, sorry, one sec. Oh, thank the sky, it’s Saint-14’s frequency,” the Hunter says, tapping his comm link as he hops up from his chair. “I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

“Saint-14? I thought it was Eli you were worried about.”

“Yeah, Saint is with him.”

“Then why the fuck are you worried about him?” Karja calls after him, as he hurries away. “Goddamned idiot men. Can you believe this, Roxy?”

“From what I have learned of human males, I find this one’s behavior to be extremely believable,” her Ghost answers chirpily.

“No more human males for me, then,” Karja grins. “Ooh, let’s go tell Tess. She’s a total freak, she’ll love it.”

Ghost sets down the Hunter’s jumpship on a landing pad adjoining a spired tower, looming high above the Dreaming City. Guardians are not normally allowed in this part of the city, but they have been given special dispensation by the Regent Commander. This was transmitted to them through Geppetto, along with the coordinates, and an apology from Saint-14 that he will not be there to meet them, as his presence is urgently required back at the Tower.

The Hunter exits the ship by transmat and is told by a waiting Corsair that his friend can be found in the chapel below. Every building here looks like a chapel to him, however, so she has to point out the exact one she means. This chapel among chapels is a basilica-shaped structure, a level down from the landing pad and across one of these interminable skybridges, with their defiant lack of any kind of safety railing whatsoever.

He thanks the woman and hurries down a wide staircase, then another, then finally across the bridge. Inside the arched doorway of the white-walled and glittering-purple domed cathedral, he sees Eli standing in his gold-trimmed cloak and crimson trousers. His back is to the door and he is gazing down into a reflecting pool, where schools of tiny, shimmering light-fish flit in and out between the pads of the serene lilies.

“Eli, I’ve been so worried,” he says, as he comes up behind him. “Are you alright? What happened to you?”

Eli turns slowly and looks up at him, with a taut, thin-lipped smile. “A lot, it would seem.”

The Hunter reaches out a hand to touch his friend, but quicker than sight, Eli has caught him by the throat and slammed his back against the wall, stunning him and knocking the wind out of him. Even for a Guardian, his strength is terrifying. The Hunter is aware that he is feeling only an inkling of its true magnitude, as Eli holds him pinned there with one hand, looking into his face. His expression betrays no emotion, but there is something new in those molten-gold eyes. Recognition.

“Eli, please—” the Hunter begins, but his words are strangled by the iron grip tightening around his throat.

“My name is Uldren,” he says, in a taunting, serpentine tone. “But you knew that already.”

The Hunter’s knees almost give way beneath him. He hasn’t heard him speak like this since the Prison of Elders, more than two years ago. His posture—head tilted slightly back and to one side, with an expression of supreme disdain on his perfect features—this was a mannerism of Uldren’s, but never of Eli’s.

“Of course I knew!” he chokes out, straining to pry the immovable fingers from around his neck. “How could I not? I’m the one they sent to—”

“To hunt me down like a dog and murder me in a sanctuary of my people? Yes, I remember. Tell me one thing, Guardian.” He leans in close, so the Hunter can almost feel his breath on his face. “Why didn’t you take the shot?”

“That wasn’t the job. I was only—only there to bring you in.”

“With a gun to my head?”

“Whatever it took to stop you. You were too dangerous to take any chances. But it was never my intention to kill you.”

“I killed your friend. You didn’t want just a little bit of revenge?”

“He wasn’t my friend!” the Hunter snarls, still struggling ineffectually in his grasp. “I was trying to save you! Then Petra shot you and I couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch you die. It fucking—it fucking destroyed me.”

“Really,” Uldren sneers. “And why should my death matter so much to you?”

“Because I was in love with you, you asshole!”

The fiery eyes remain fixed on his, but the tranquil expression flickers. “You…what?”

“I know how fucking stupid it was, ok? I know what you are and what I am. I never entertained the slightest idea that we would—that you would ever think of me as anything but a worthless dog, but that didn’t change the fact that I loved you.”

“You loved…me. _You_. You dared to think of—” the scornful smile fades and the furrows in his brow deepen. “I see it now. That was the reason you were so kind to me. Why you took me under your wing and made yourself my friend. You couldn’t have me, but my body was enough.”

“No, Eli—”

“Uldren!”

“Uldren—Uldren, please, listen to me. You were murdered and I failed to prevent it. I owed you a debt I could never repay. When you came back as one of us, it was like I had a second chance to do right by you. You were alone in this world, with that face and no memory…you needed a friend so badly. Someone who would be on your side, no matter what. That’s all I meant for it to be.”

“How could you keep all of this from me?” Uldren demands, his dark, velvety voice beginning to waver. “How could you call yourself a friend while you were lying to me like that? How could you do it!”

“How could I lay the burdens of a man you couldn’t remember being on you?” the Hunter returns. “I was in love with Uldren Sov. If I’d told you who you were, it would’ve been for the wrong reasons. I had no right to force you to be the man I wanted you to be, when you had a chance at a clean slate. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Uldren bares his white teeth. “How pretty. But your noble conscience didn’t stop you fucking me.”

“I watched you die,” the Hunter pleads. “I spent two years bleeding out over you, seeing your death repeated over and over in my head, every time I closed my eyes. Hearing your voice, asking me which side I was on, every time there was silence. Then you reappeared right in my path, like it was fate, and I fell in love with you all over again. When you said you wanted me, too…how could I be expected to refuse you?”

Uldren’s grip on his throat eases, then he releases him entirely and backs away a step, looking suddenly disoriented and unsteady. “You loved me…before. I knew you before.”

The Hunter swallows hard, rubbing his bruised neck. “For what it’s worth, it was my friend Eli I was with. Not Uldren Sov’s body.”

“I…was Eli? But you were—” Uldren’s eyes dart back and forth, as if he’s reading some invisible text written in the air between them. Then his expression softens. “That was before. I remember now. We fought side by side. We were friends. I think…I think I am still your friend.”

“I hope you are,” the Hunter ventures. “But you’re Uldren, too. How is this possible? What happened to you?”

“My sister’s witches,” Uldren answers, gesturing vaguely in the direction of another tower. “They put my memory back in my head. Thousands of years, all at once. I’ve been having…a difficult time, sorting it all out. You were from long ago, but…you’re also from now. I’m here now, but I was here before, too. I know my Ghost from now. He brought me back as one of you.”

“You know what you are? You understand?”

“I’m not an idiot, Guardian. I’m only confused about time and where exactly people and events fit into it. The witches called it chronological dissociation, but I suspect they made that up on the spot. Saint-14 was here with me, for a while. He helped me through the worst of it. I think…he said you would come. Yes. That’s why I waited here. I wanted to see you.”

“I’m so sorry. Zavala and Saint went after you and they wouldn’t let me go with them. They didn’t tell me anything about any of this, though. Are you in pain?”

“No…and yes. Pain comes like waves on a shore. Memories wash in and out. I was human, once. We were human. You and I.”

“I always wanted to ask you about the colony ships and the Collapse, and what it was like in the Distributary, but we were enemies. And even when we weren’t, you hated me.”

“But…you were there,” Uldren’s eyes flicker over his face, then away. “You don’t remember. I remember you from the Taken War. The Young Wolf. So handsome and arrogant in your shining armor, thinking you would conquer the Black Garden where I had failed. And you did it. You cut out its heart.”

“No one has called me Young Wolf in a long time.”

“Not so long. But I remember you from now, too. Still handsome and arrogant. Like Jolyon, but less of both.”

“Thanks,” the Hunter says wryly.

“Jealous of Jol,” Uldren laughs. “A child’s reaction to half the truth.”

The Hunter is aware that he is thoroughly outmatched in both wit and education by his far older companion, but being dismissed with a laugh this way rather annoys him. Uldren abruptly changes mood and tone, however, throwing him entirely off balance.

“Hunter, I’m—I’m hurt,” he says, suddenly breathing hard. His hands close into fists at his sides. “You hurt me. You’re an insect compared to me, how can you have enough power to hurt me?”

The Hunter stands at ease, leaving his posture open. If Uldren decides to hit him, that will be the least of what he deserves. “I’m so sorry. I know how unworthy I am of you. I tried to tell you.”

“You…you did. You did try to tell me. But I wanted you anyway. I pursued you and possessed you. You…were mine. You’re still mine. You belong to me.”

He takes hold of the Hunter’s collar and pushes him against the wall again, but he pins him with his body, rather than by his throat, and cards his fingers through his short, silver-white hair. From force of habit, the Hunter’s hands come up and rest on his hips.

“You undying child…you’re in my blood. Under my skin,” Uldren murmurs. “I remember how you feel, inside me. I haven’t been inside you, though.”

“No, you—you haven’t,” the Hunter stammers, as Uldren’s hand slides down his thigh.

“I could take you now, if I wanted to,” he purrs, his lips brushing the Hunter’s ear, and his hot breath on his neck. “Maybe I will.”

The Hunter’s head spins as Uldren’s mouth covers his, hips grinding against him as their tongues roll over each other. His cock is already rigid and aching, straining against his clothing at the thought of being held down and fucked by this beautiful, powerful man. Uldren pulls away, lips bruised and flushed, pupils blown wide in his ignited irises. The Hunter watches helplessly as he unfastens his belt, then undoes his fly and pulls out his hard cock.

His other hand takes the Hunter by the throat again, holding him in his white-gold gaze. The Hunter stares back at him, unable to look away. There is nothing of Eli in those eyes, now. This is the proud, ruthless, age-old prince of the Awoken, and he will do as he pleases with him. He is pushed roughly to his knees, mouth already wet and open for Uldren’s cock, which is thrust in to the hilt, all at once. He moves his tongue against the shaft in hungry anticipation, feeling it growing hotter and stiffer in his mouth.

“Don’t swallow it,” Uldren says calmly. “Spit it on the floor in front of you.”

The Hunter ignores his aching jaw, letting saliva pour down his chin, never gagging or even flinching as his throat is fucked hard and fast, with little regard to his personal comfort. Uldren groans as he gives one more deep thrust, his cock throbbing in the Hunter’s mouth, filling it with hot, salty fluid. He lets go abruptly and steps back. The Hunter leans over dutifully and lets the fluid drizzle out of his mouth, splashing into a luminescent puddle on the dark, glassy surface of the floor.

Uldren steps around behind him and holds him by the back of his neck, bending down to speak into his ear. “Make yourself come for me. Right there, in the same spot. I want to see it.”

The Hunter reaches down and fumbles hastily with his fly, pulling his aching cock out of his soaked underwear. Uldren’s hands close around his neck, squeezing his throat as he strokes himself feverishly, till his head buzzes and dark spots creep before his eyes. He comes just before his vision goes entirely black, hips jerking erratically as his cock spurts bursts of fluid onto the floor.

His throat is released and blood rushes back into his head. He nearly topples forward, but Uldren’s hands are on his shoulders, holding him steady as he tries to catch his breath. He blinks dazedly down at the mingled milky-white and luminescent spatters all over the smooth, deep-purple stone, while the prince pets his hair and murmurs words of praise, of which his ringing ears fail to make any sense. He is pulled to his feet again and they refasten their trousers and belts in silence, then Uldren goes over to peer out of the archway.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, turning to see the Hunter with his scarf out, about to attend to the mess on the floor. “I hope one of those miserable witches slips in it. Serve them right for torturing me.”

“You sure?”

“Technically, this all belongs to me. If I can’t come on my own floors, what’s the point of being a prince?”

The Hunter laughs aloud at this, and would have pulled Eli in for a kiss, but handling the Awoken prince that way is an entirely different matter. Wars have started over lesser affronts. He is extraordinarily fortunate, in fact, that his actions have not already done so.

“It will always stand between us, if you let it,” Uldren says, as if he’s read his mind. “I’m the same man I was when you pushed me into that river on Earth. I just remember more of myself, now.”

“I hoped you’d forgotten about that. In my defense, it was pretty funny. And I did go in after you.”

“Yes, and then you said we should ‘get out of these wet clothes’, which is why I think you did it in the first place.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“We fucked against a tree on the riverbank.”

“Because you said it would be gross to do it in the water. You were right, but that deer was _very_ surprised.”

Uldren smiles, and for a moment, he is almost all Eli. He steps close and hangs his arms around the Hunter’s neck, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I want to fuck you properly. Let’s go home.”

“Isn’t this your home?”

“I mean my private rooms. They’re in that tower over there and they’re idiotic. You should come just to laugh at the ridiculous amount of space I have.”

“You never liked any of the pomp and circumstance, did you.”

“Maybe, when I was very young,” he sighs, and Eli submerges again. “A mind as old as mine craves simplicity, more than anything. The trappings of wealth are fetters, and all that. Will you come with me?”

“Lead the way, your, uh…highness?” the Hunter says, earning an eye-roll and a toss of the silky, black and white hair. “I’m not trying to be funny. I have no idea what it’s appropriate to call you.”

“Right. I forgot you’ll have to be trained not to embarrass me in public.” Uldren bites his lip thoughtfully. “There’s too much to explain. For now, if there are other people around, call me Prince Uldren, and don’t speak to me unless I speak to you first. When you’re talking to third parties, it’s acceptable to refer to me as the prince, Prince Uldren, or his—ugh— _highness_ , which I loathe.”

“What about when we’re, um…when you and I are…when there are not other people around?” the Hunter asks clumsily, blushing to the ears.

“I’m beginning to believe you turn your skin pink just to tempt me to injudicious action,” the prince answers, eyeing him the way a lion eyes a gazelle. “When we’re alone, you may call me by my name. If your mouth is otherwise unoccupied.”

Despite his host’s professed desire to show him the suite of rooms, the Hunter barely gets to form any opinion of them at all, before he is herded into the bedchamber, pushed onto his back in an enormous, silk-sheeted bed, and forcibly relieved of his armor and clothing. Hours later, they are lying together, naked and thoroughly exhausted. The Hunter is tracing the shimmers of light that pass over Uldren’s chest with his fingertips, trying and failing to discern a pattern in them.

“My sister did this to me,” Uldren says listlessly, staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

The Hunter pushes himself up to look into his face. “Did what to you?”

“She knew what was happening to me, and never told me. She let me lose my mind. Kill our own people. Live in exile and humiliation for years. All to serve her design.”

“Which design? Because—no offense—it seems like she has a lot of them.”

“You know her well,” Uldren says, with a bitter smile. “When you came to us before the Taken War, demanding entry to the Black Garden, I didn’t want to deny you on a personal whim. I had been into the Garden. I had seen its heart. I asked my sister to deny you because by giving you her leave, she was sending you to your death.”

“You survived, though. The way you were, without a ghost to res you. Why did you assume I wouldn’t?”

“Because I didn’t really survive. When Jolyon and I made our way out, I believed we’d escaped unscathed, but we hadn’t. Neither of us. He was only scarred, but I had been poisoned. The thorns pierced deep and the venom festered in my mind. I was sick with it, long before Riven’s whispers.”

“Why didn’t you…I don’t know. Try to get help?”

“I wasn’t aware of it. My sister saw it from the first, but she judged me too weak to withstand it and counted me among the lost. But her lover, Sjur Eido—the one who gave you that bow—saw visions. One of these concerned my death and my rebirth in the Light. A lightbearer with…a role to play in future events. She told Mara what she’d seen, and Mara believed that was the way the Garden’s corruption would be cleansed from me.

She decided that if this was to be my path, she must let me go and let me die, to be reborn, as I had been chosen to be. But she’d seen what the Traveler did to its children, erasing their minds and making them its own things, and she didn’t like it. So she formed a plan of her own. In the vision, Sjur also saw a Ghost visit the court, and depart with a reefmade shell, and so my sister had one crafted with a special modification, to await the time when this Ghost would come seeking its Guardian. Meanwhile, she and her witches created the most powerful crystallized memory that had ever been made, for use on me. When the Ghost appeared, Mara gave the shell to him as a gift, but told him nothing. The crystal, she stored here with instructions for Petra, and left me to my fate.

You know the rest. I went mad and brought the wrath of the Vanguard down on myself, in the form of you. Then, when you failed to be the mindless killer they all took you for, Petra was forced to pull the trigger herself. She wasn’t confident in Sjur’s visions, but her love for Mara has no bounds. Because of her devotion to my sister, she had no choice but to kill me and hope it was not in vain. And here I am. Lightbearer and myself, also. Memory intact.”

“So…Petra killed you to save you? Because Mara told her you’d come back as a Guardian?”

“Yes. You understand why she didn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, she wanted it to be me. She knew I was strong enough to kill you, and she thought I was consumed by vengeance over Cayde’s death, just like everyone else did. I was the perfect pawn. Until I wasn’t.”

“If you would forgive her, I’d be grateful. She’s one of my oldest friends.”

“Alright, but you have to tell Jolyon I didn’t kill you. He’s fucking pissed at me.”

“He knows already. We spoke at some length before Mara’s spell mindfucked me into a three day fever-dream. But he was never as angry with you as the two of you like to pretend.”

“He wasn’t?”

“No. He adores you, and you adore him. I hope you will remain friends. In fact, I expect it.”

“What are you talking about, of course we’ll stay friends. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Sometimes ill will arises when two people…love the same person.”

Had he driven a knife into his chest and split his ribcage open, it would have caused the Hunter less pain than these softly spoken words. His grey-green eyes freeze to a spot somewhere across the room and do not move from there, even when Uldren takes his hands and kisses them.

“Jolyon has been my lover for many centuries, Hunter,” he says gently. “We’ve both taken others, of course, but our hearts have always belonged to each other.”

“I see,” the Hunter says, in a taut, emotionless voice. “I didn’t know you were—he spoke of you as a friend. He also spoke of a wife.”

“Laviska. He loved her dearly and so did I. She was killed in the Hildian Campaign, during the Reef Wars. He was never the same after he lost her. If only he’d had her still when I…when I wasn’t there.”

“You can be there, now,” the Hunter replies curtly, drawing away. “What are you doing fucking around with me? Why aren’t you with him?”

Uldren looks down at his empty hands. The light from his eyes shines faintly on them in the dimness of the room. “This is cruel of me, isn’t it. To talk to you about him like this, after we’ve just fucked.”

“It doesn’t feel great.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid my age has made me callous. I remember a time when I cared about whose cock went where, but Jolyon being assigned a breeding partner cured me of that. At first I was only furious. Then when he wanted to marry her…I was devastated. I tried to hate him. I tried hurt him, to push him away and shut him out, but he refused to let me. He was always there, by my side, the same beautiful, self-assured, sharp-tongued Jolyon. Eventually, I realized that nothing had changed, and he still loved me as he always had. His love for her was just another thing to bring him happiness.”

“So, you were…the three of you were—”

“No, of course not. I have no sexual interest in women. She and I loved each other as friends. We loved the same man, so it was easy to find common ground.”

“And you think he and I both being in love with you will be a reason for us to maintain a friendship. Instead of the exact opposite.”

“Not friendship, exactly. You and he are already close, and you both have sex with men, so I hope it can be more.”

“I see. And what does he think of this?”

“You know what he thinks. Otherwise…we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The Hunter balks at this, his entire being revolting against the idea. Either accept the divided heart of the man he loves, or be left broken and alone. Cast off in favor of the one who truly owns that heart, and has possessed it for longer than he has lived in any lifetime.

“So you want me to be your…what? Your pet?” he says angrily. “You want to keep me around for when the man you really love is too busy to fuck you himself?”

“You’re being cruel, Hunter,” Uldren says in that infuriatingly calm, low voice. “But you’re in pain and you don’t understand the source of that pain, so I don’t fault you for it.”

“You think I don’t understand why I’m hurt?” the Hunter demands. “You don’t think maybe it’s because I barely had my dick out of you before you told me you love someone else?”

“No. I think you don’t understand me. You believe that because I love Jolyon, I can’t love you just as much, but I do. I am telling you that I love you both. I want you to stay with us. You and him and me, on equal terms.”

“No, I get that. I get that you want to have us both. But don’t insult me by pretending it would be on equal terms. You two have been together for thousands of years. I’m…a blip in the timeline of your lives.”

“You really don’t understand how much I love you. If you did, you would never say these things to me.”

“Tell me, then. Tell me how much the great prince of the Awoken loves me, a man he just called an insect a few hours ago.”

“Now I am warning you, take care how you speak to me,” Uldren says icily, and all at once he seems to be a cold and distant star, speaking down to the Hunter from a great height. Seeing his lover’s sudden distress, he realizes what has happened, and forces himself to soften and appear more human again. “Would you do this to Eli? Would you try to hurt him with your words?”

“No,” the Hunter chokes, through an upwelling of tears. “But you’re not Eli. I don’t even know—who you are, anymore.”

“I am many things. Not all of them pretty. You fell in love with the idea of Uldren Sov, but you didn’t really know him. You knew Eli. You fell in love with him, and he fell in love with you. But I loved you first. You belonged to me first. I’m old and hard and cruel now, but part of me still possesses that fresh, unscarred heart that beat only for you.”

The Hunter frowns, not understanding this at all. “You loved me first? What are you talking about?”

“I…I was afraid to tell you—the you before. But you said it. You said you loved me. And then you left me.”

“The me…before? That doesn’t make sense. I think you’re having trouble with your chronology again.”

“No. You were my first love. My first…anything. I remember joking once that I was a virgin until you. I had no idea how true it was.”

The Hunter stares at him as if he’s lost his mind. “You and I first met a few years ago, during the Taken War. You couldn’t stand the sight of me. The first time we had sex was less than a year ago, after you came back as a Guardian.”

“No, it wasn’t,” the prince replies tranquilly. “It was on Earth, during the Collapse. You were an Army Intelligence officer from the North American Empire. I was a nineteen-year-old boy living in a town in Russia, where you were stationed. I was a virgin when I met you. When you left me, I was not.”

“Uldren, think about what you’re saying,” the Hunter says slowly, as if addressing a child. “You are thousands of years old. That can’t have happened.”

“No, _you_ think about what I’m saying,” Uldren laughs. “You know those thousands of years passed in another universe, where time doesn’t flow in parallel to time in this one. You know my people left on a colony ship during the collapse, five-hundred years ago.”

“But…you must be mistaken. You would’ve known me. You would’ve remembered me when we met again.”

Uldren shakes his head. “Not even immortal minds are perfect. By that time, I had long forgotten almost everything about my life before the awakening. I only remember now because Mara’s heavy-handed spell to restore my memory restored all of it. Everything. All the way back to my childhood on Earth. Including the first man I ever loved.”

The Hunter’s stomach turns as he experiences a sensation he can only liken to the earth suddenly tilting beneath him. He puts both his palms flat on the bed, attempting to steady himself. “No, this—it can’t be true. How. How can this be true?”

“Is it so strange? That you and I would cross paths, and the same things that attracted us to one another before would do so again?”

“I don’t know,” he says stupidly. “I don’t…I don’t understand.”

“Would you like to know your name? If you haven’t guessed already.”

“Tell me.”

Uldren pulls him close and wraps his arms around him, speaking softly, into his ear. “Your name…is Eli.”

The Hunter’s body curls defensively, and he buries his face in the crook of Uldren’s smooth, pale-blue neck, clinging to him like an anchor, immovable and solid in the raging storm. But in a small, quiet place in his mind, he knows. He can’t remember and he never will, but he knows it’s true. Then he is staggered by the absolutely reason-defying odds…to have fallen in love with his former lover, hundreds of years after his own death. Then again, after that lover died and returned—and even named himself after him. What does this mean? What does any of it mean?

“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything,” Uldren says, with that new, uncanny ability to read his mind. “Or maybe it means there really is something as capricious and cruel as love, and as inescapable as fate. What I do know is that I loved you when I was a child. Thousands of years later, after I had died and returned with no memory of either of my lives, the first name on my lips was yours.”

There are hot tears rolling down his cheeks and splashing onto Uldren’s bare chest, but he can do nothing to stop them. “Why did I leave you? How could I ever have left you?”

“You were called away on some urgent mission and you never came back. I heard a rumor that your entire unit had been killed, but I never knew for sure. It must’ve been true, because you are exactly as I remember you. Not a day older. You even wear your hair the same way.”

The Hunter sits back and looks into his pale-gold eyes, wiping his tears away with the back of his hand. “I want…I want to know about us. Who we were. But it’s too much right now. I need time.”

“Take all the time you need. But do you see now, how I can love you just as much as I love Jolyon?”

“Yes,” the Hunter says hoarsely, then clears his throat. “Yes, I see. Let me ask you one thing, though. If it came to a choice, and you had to take one of us, would it be me or him?”

“It won’t come to a choice. Not unless you make it one.”

“Then, I guess…I guess I’ll learn to get along with that pompous jackass. Even though he’s been fucking my boyfriend all this time, without my permission. We’ll have to talk about that.”

“Good. I’ll have him summoned and you two can talk it out right now.”

The Hunter raises an eyebrow. “Summoned?”

“Princes get to summon people. I just tell the attendants who I want and they have to bring them to me. Are you impressed?”

“Extremely. You think you could summon us something to eat, too? I’m fucking starving.”

“Literally anything you want.”

“Ok. How about…a hamburger.”

“I know what that is, now! It’s meat, though. You are not allowed to kill an animal in my home, Hunter.”

“No, but…princes’ boyfriends get to eat hamburgers. It’s a new rule.”

“Is that the way it’s going to be? You making up new rules to suit your fancy?”

“Well, you’re the Awoken prince and a lightbearer. Seems like all the rules are up in the air.”

As he is saying this, there is a tap at the bedroom doorframe (as the door itself is wide open), which means that someone has not only entered the prince’s chamber uninvited, but managed to do so unnoticed by two Hunters. This person can only be Jolyon Till, however, so neither of them are particularly concerned. Though the Hunter does wish he’d been given a chance to put on his underwear.

“My lord prince,” Jolyon says briskly, as he strides into the room, stopping to give a half-bow at the foot of the bed. “Hunter, it’s always good to see you. I have never seen quite this _much_ of you, but it is good, all the same.”

“Hey, uh—hi. Hi, Jolyon,” the Hunter mutters, pulling the sheet chastely up around his waist.

“Look how pink he turns, Jol!” Uldren says delightedly. “Didn’t I tell you? It’s the prettiest thing.”

“You did and it is,” Jolyon answers, with a dip of his chin. “I couldn’t help overhearing that you’re hungry. Shall I have food sent up?”

“Yes, please. Hunter wants a hamburger and I want whatever you feel like ordering for me.”

“He’s acting weird,” the Hunter whispers to Uldren. “Why is he acting like this?”

“What? Oh, no, you’re just not used to his indoor manners. He’ll shake it off soon.”

“I’m not thrilled with how much like a pet you just made me sound, but that’s correct,” Jolyon assents. “If you’ll excuse me a moment.”

“Where’s he going?” the Hunter asks, as Jolyon strides back out of the room.

“To tell whatever attendant is lurking about to have food brought. You know you can speak directly to him, right? He is your friend.”

“Yeah, of course. I just…feel weird. Should we put some clothes on?”

“We’ve seen each other naked hundreds of times, what does that matter?” Uldren replies, stretching himself out languidly in the plum-colored silk linens.

“No, you and I have, and you and Jolyon have, but Jolyon and I have not. It doesn’t carry over.”

“Hm. Maybe I’ll be called away on some pressing business. Give you two a chance to become better acquainted.”

“No, no—don’t do that. I’ll be fine. I’m just nervous.”

“You won’t be when you see him naked. He is spectacular.”

“If you’re talking about me, you are correct,” Jolyon says, reentering the room at that moment. “I am absolutely spectacular.”

“And exceedingly humble,” Uldren adds. “Why aren’t you undressed? I want to look at your spectacular body while we talk.”

“Alright, but you know the rules. If you order me to take off my clothes, you have to let me fuck you.”

“I absolutely order you to take them off.”

“I am the prince’s humble servant,” Jolyon grins, giving a theatrical bow.

The Hunter tries not to stare as his erstwhile colleague-slash-casual-friend kicks off his boots and tosses away his jacket and shirt. When he peels off his leather breeches, the Hunter abandons the effort and lets his eyes stray across his narrow waist and chiseled abdomen, then down the v-shaped line leading from his iliac crest to his long, thick cock, hanging heavy between his thighs. His gaze travels back up to his broad shoulders, rich dark-brown hair, brilliant blue eyes, and the light shimmering across his smooth, violet-hued skin. This man is not only beautiful, he is positively stunning.

“I have very good taste, Hunter,” Uldren says, as if he had spoken his observations aloud.

Jolyon laughs at this, then stops, seeing the Hunter flush scarlet again. “I know you like it, Uldren, but his skin turning pink means he’s uncomfortable. Maybe you shouldn’t torment him like this.”

“Every time he’s being absurd, I get accused of tormenting him,” Uldren replies, almost petulantly. “It’s not my fault humans are prudes about sex. Awoken like us weren’t brought up that way.”

“You weren’t brought up Awoken, you were brought up human,” Jolyon retorts, as he goes to the wardrobe and pulls out an ivory jacquard robe. “You were twenty years old at the awakening.”

“I just ordered you to take off your clothes.”

“This is a dressing gown, my love, and I’ve put it on to spare my friend, who is not enjoying our mutual exposure nearly as much as you are.”

“Oh—no, I was,” the Hunter says hastily. “Not that I was looking. I mean, I saw. And it was all very, uh…god damn it.”

“You see why I love him, Jol?” Uldren sighs. “Such a way with words. He’s practically a poet.”

“Was he like this when he was Eli?” Jolyon asks, turning to the Hunter.

“Pretty much. Glib, sarcastic, always knew better than me about everything. Like a Ghost, but a in a really hot body.”

“What?” Uldren asks, as they both look at him, expecting some rejoinder. “That was all accurate.”

“Look, I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, but this is weird,” the Hunter says. “Can we at least admit it’s weird?”

“It is weird,” Jolyon agrees, seating himself on the corner of the bed. “We’ve never seen each other outside of work, and now we’re naked in a bedroom together because his highness doesn’t understand boundaries.”

Uldren crosses his arms and glares.

“I’m sorry, I mean the _prince_ doesn’t understand boundaries.”

“Thank you. And I don’t see what boundary I’m supposed to understand. We’re all beautiful, we all want to fuck each other, what’s the problem? That we haven’t decided who tops?”

“This is a bit more complicated than who puts what where,” Jolyon explains patiently. “Things can be touchy and volatile when it comes to people who love each other fucking other people.”

“Speaking of which, you’re aware that he was my boyfriend first, right?” the Hunter interjects. “And you’ve been fucking him for like a thousand years without my permission.”

Jolyon tilts his head inquisitively. “Didn’t you abandon him and break his heart so badly that he left the planet on a colony ship? And wasn’t he a teenager at the time?”

“I—ok. Listen. First of all, I didn’t abandon him. I died. And there may not have been…that much of an age difference. We don’t even know how old I was.”

“I know,” Uldren says helpfully. “You were thirty-four solar years old when we met, but you had a birthday two months later and turned thirty-five.”

Jolyon gives a low whistle. “Wow, Hunter. Sixteen years…almost twice his age.”

“Oh, please,” Uldren scoffs. “I knew your parents before you were born. And I knew their parents before _they_ were born. When one gets to be as old as we are, those differences shrink to insignificance.”

“That’s fair,” Jolyon says unconcernedly. “Insignificant or not, you have to admit you have a lot more white hair than I do. You both do.”

“I don’t know where this even came from,” Uldren says irritably, pinching a black and white lock between his thumb and forefinger to inspect it. “I was jet-black when I was shot down on Mars. It seems to have happened all in a year.”

“Mine’s been white as long as I can remember,” the Hunter puts in.

“And as long as I can. We’ve been waiting for food as long as I can remember, too. Where is that attendant?”

“So, back to how you were fucking my boyfriend,” the Hunter says to Jolyon, as Uldren goes to recon the food situation.

Jolyon raises his eyebrows. “What about it?”

“Well, it seems like you’ve been doing a pretty good job,” the Hunter grins. “So, thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Jolyon laughs. “And I know what you’re thinking, but there’s no need to throw around words like heroism and self-sacrifice. I was only doing my part.”

“Yes, you’re practically a saint,” Uldren says returning and flopping dramatically onto the bed. “Can we please get to the part where you’re both fucking me?”

The Hunter squints at him. “We just did it like, an hour ago. Do you ever get tired?”

“It was closer to two hours, and you know I don’t.”

“Are you still—” Jolyon breaks off and clears his throat, as if struggling to keep his voice calm. “You didn’t bathe yet…did you?”

Uldren pretends not to hear the question and instead, rolls onto his stomach and props himself up on his elbows, emphasizing the curve of his lower back, and the firm roundness of his ass. Jolyon kneels on the bed beside him and runs the tips of his fingers along his spine. The mood of the room seems to have shifted suddenly, and the Hunter feels completely out of his depth. He’s not sure what’s about to happen, but what it looks like is that the two most beautiful men he’s ever seen are about to fuck in front of him. He watches in tense anticipation, almost holding his breath, saying a silent prayer to the god of voyeurism that they won’t stop.

“He came inside you, didn’t he,” Jolyon says, in a low hoarse voice.

Uldren looks away, keeping his mouth defiantly shut. Jolyon slides his hand down to the cleft of his ass and spreads it apart with his thumb and middle finger.

“Look at that pretty hole,” he hums, massaging it with the pad of his forefinger.

His eyes are heavy lidded, and he curses under his breath his as he pushes it inside. The Hunter’s dick swells, tenting the sheet on his lap. Unconsciously, he reaches down and palms over the shaft through the silk fabric as he watches them.

“Still soft and wet from being fucked,” Jolyon says, pushing another finger in beside the first. “How did it feel when he came inside you? You liked it, didn’t you.”

Uldren tosses his head, stubbornly refusing to speak. Jolyon takes him roughly by a fistful of his hair and forces him face the Hunter.

“Look at him,” he growls. “Tell him how much you liked it when he opened you up and bred you like a bitch in heat.”

“I—I liked it,” Uldren gasps. “I liked when you came inside me.”

His breath hitches and he arches his back, tilting his ass up as Jolyon’s fingers slide out and plunge in, deeper and deeper. The Hunter pulls the sheet away, exposing his hard cock, and begins to stroke it slowly.

“You still want it, you shameless whore,” Jolyon taunts. He lets go of Uldren’s hair and pulls his fingers out of him abruptly, making him give a plaintive cry. “Beg him for it. Crawl to him and beg him to let you swallow his cock.”

The Hunter watches in breathless awe as Uldren obediently crawls to him on all fours. He is utterly astounded at the difference between the cold and imperious prince who had pinned him against that wall and fucked his mouth in the chapel vestibule, and this languid, wanton creature, shuddering and submissive in Jolyon's hands. Spreading his knees so Uldren can fit between them, he leans back against the headboard, then glances up at Jolyon, who tosses him one of his jaunty grins as he sheds his robe. Uldren takes the Hunter’s cock in his hand and attempts to put his mouth on it, but Jolyon has him by the hair again and yanks his head back.

“I said beg!” he barks. “Beg him to fuck your little slut mouth.”

“P—please,” Uldren sputters. “Please fuck my mouth. I want—I want it. Please.”

The Hunter’s hand replaces Jolyon’s on the back of Uldren’s head, and he guides his dick into his hot, wet mouth. Uldren’s tongue laps and laves the swollen head, then writhes along the shaft as he takes it in one long, slow slide. When his nose almost touches the Hunter’s white pubic hair, he stops and stays perfectly still, his throat squeezing and swallowing on it.

“Holy—fucking shit,” the Hunter breathes, fighting back the overwhelming urge to thrust. “How long can he do this?”

“Don’t know. I’ve never reached his limit. Uldren, tap once for go and twice for stop, ok?”

Uldren reaches up and taps once on the Hunter’s thigh, then Jolyon spreads his ass with both hands and impales him in one deep, vicious thrust. Uldren lets out a muffled cry, which is immediately strangled as the momentum pushes the Hunter’s dick further down his throat.

“Fuck his mouth, Hunter,” Jolyon says, as he pulls out and spears him again. “He begged you for it, didn’t he?”

The Hunter holds Uldren’s head steady with both hands and begins to buck his hips, watching carefully for his responses. Uldren’s jaw remains slack and pliant, and he offers no resistance. He thrusts deeper. Tears roll down from the outer corners of Uldren’s eyes as he squeezes them shut, and a stream of drool leaks out and begins to drip off his chin, but he doesn’t tap out.

“You got so tight just now,” Jolyon says, rocking into him in slow, steady strokes. “You must really like being fucked in both holes at once.”

He reaches around to feel the slick on Uldren’s leaking cock, then holds up his hand, showing the Hunter the clear fluid all over his fingers. Understanding his intention instinctively, the Hunter takes hold of Uldren’s silky hair and pulls him up. Jolyon immediately pushes his fingers into his open mouth.

“Good boy, get it all,” he says, as Uldren licks and sucks them eagerly. “Show him how much you like it.”

He draws away his wet fingers and Uldren swallows the Hunter’s cock again, licking and sucking him with redoubled energy. Jolyon matches his pace, fucking him harder and faster, hips slamming into his ass with dull, wet thuds.

“I’m not gonna last—long like this,” the Hunter pants, looking at Jolyon.

“If you want to come with a cock in your mouth, you better slow down, your highness,” Jolyon admonishes, then laughs at Uldren’s irritated growl.

He pulls off the Hunter with an obscene, wet pop. “Don’t fucking—call me that. I’m still your com—ah! commander.”

“Apologies, my lord _prince_ ,” Jolyon says, punctuating the phrase with a sharp thrust. Uldren yelps and immediately reaches down to wring his tortured, throbbing cock, but Jolyon catches his wrists and pins them at the small of his back. “No hands. You can come from being fucked, or not at all.”

“Shut up and fuck me then,” Uldren fires back. “Ha—ah! Harder!”

“Don’t you dare come before we do,” Jolyon warns, as the Hunter pushes Uldren’s head back down. Holding his wrists for leverage, he pistons his hips, pounding into him at a breakneck pace, as his head bobs on the Hunter’s cock with equal enthusiasm.

“I can’t—I can’t hold it,” the Hunter rasps, through clenched teeth. “I’m…fuck!”

The strained thread of his self-control snaps, and he plunges his cock into Uldren’s mouth, holding his head down on it as he pumps his hot, salty ejaculation into the back of his throat. Uldren gags hard, spilling it down his chin and neck, but the sensation of choking on the Hunter’s spurting cock pushes him over the edge. His ass clamps down tightly on Jolyon’s shaft, making Jolyon come suddenly with a sharp cry. Uldren’s cock convulses, dousing the purple silk beneath him in rapid, intense bursts, just as Jolyon floods his insides with slippery fluid.

The Hunter releases his head immediately, but Jolyon holds on, riding out the spasms deep inside him. When the peak ebbs, he holds his ass open with his thumbs and pulls out slowly, watching the faintly-glowing liquid run out of Uldren’s pulsing hole and trickle down his thighs. Finally, he lets go of his hips, and Uldren collapses onto his stomach.

For a long moment, Jolyon remains standing there on his knees, admiring the prince’s semen-spattered, sweat-slick body, facedown and panting in front of him, with his head on the Hunter’s lap. If he’d been a painter, he couldn’t have been blessed with a more perfect scene than this. Pale-blue skin against rose pink, the muscular, white-haired man stroking his lover’s back and gazing dreamily down at him, like he’s the reason for the sun rising and setting.

The Hunter looks up and grins sheepishly, realizing he’s been caught. “I can’t help it. He’s so pretty like this.”

Jolyon smiles, as well. “Too fucked out to talk back? Yeah, he is.”

“You two…perverse deviants,” Uldren mumbles drunkenly. “Stop staring and get me a towel. You came all over my body.”

“You love it, you little whore,” Jolyon laughs, giving his ass a playful swat.

“That’s _prince_ little whore to you,” his highness slurs, rolling onto his back in the sea of purple silk. “And you better not strike me again. I’ll have you…you know. Clapped in irons, or something.”

“Your voice is completely wrecked, prince little whore.” Jolyon leans over him, kissing him and sucking his lower lip, chasing the tang of the Hunter’s semen in his mouth. “Mmm. You taste good, too.”

“You’re covered in sweat,” he protests, squirming and pushing him away. “No more touching me till everyone’s clean. I command it.”

The Hunter laughs, then lifts his head sharply, like a dog scenting the air. “What is that? Something smells delicious.”

“That’ll be the food I sent for,” Jolyon says, hopping to his feet. “I’ll start the bath and fetch towels. We can eat after we bathe.”

The Hunter looks supremely uncomfortable. “They just came in here and delivered food while we, uh…while we were—”

“Fucking?” Uldren interrupts. “They do that. Guards have to wait outside, but unless you specifically ask not to be disturbed, attendants pretty much have carte blanche to walk in on you at any time.”

“Oh. That’s very…weird.”

“You’ll get used to it. There’s nothing that shocks or embarrasses them. Trust me, I’ve tried.” He pauses, waiting till Jolyon is well out of the room, then sits up to be on his eye level. “Is this alright with you? The three of us?”

“You mean fucking the two hottest men in the galaxy?” the Hunter smirks. “I think I can teach myself to come to terms with it.”

“It’s not just fucking, Eli,” Uldren says, then catches himself. “I apologize. That was the name I first knew you by. Those memories are very fresh and intense for me, at the moment.”

“That name still feels like it belongs to you,” the Hunter replies truthfully. “I can’t remember the man I was then, or the man I loved, and I hate that I can’t. It feels like I lost something precious that I can never get back. But the fact that you still think of me by that name…it reminds me that falling in love with you wasn’t insane, and it wasn’t all one-sided. And it reminds me that I don’t have to remember because you do, and that precious thing isn’t really lost at all. You can call me Eli, so long as you promise you’ll keep loving me like you did when that was my name.”

The prince turns away quickly, blinking back the unexpected tears welling up in his eyes. “Fuck’s sake. Ninety-nine percent of the time you can hardly be bothered to string together a complete sentence, then out of the blue you say something like that. You could warn a person.”

“I would, if I knew what I was going to say ahead of time. I really just blurt out whatever I’m thinking. Ask Ghost, he’ll tell you.”

“Where are those little spy drones, anyway? I know Lis wanted to explore the city a bit, but it’s been hours.”

“I told Ghost to stay busy for a while. Plus, they both know better than to hurry back, at this point. They’ve been putting up with our marathon fucks for almost a year.”

“That’s true. But listen, you distracted me and I need to say this. Jol and I don’t invite other men into our bed, let alone our relationship. This is a significant thing for us. I’m telling you because I want to impress upon you how much you mean to us, and how committed we both are to making this work.”

The Hunter frowns. “You don’t do this often?”

“We have sex with other people, but not together.”

“Oh. Not that I thought it was a nonstop orgy, but you two seemed to have a pretty concrete idea how you wanted things to go. I assumed that was from experience.”

“We know each other very well. I knew how he’d behave because I’ve let other men fuck me and then come to him afterward many times, at his request. That is something he specifically enjoys.”

“What’s something who enjoys?” Jolyon asks, carrying in an armload of plush, fluffy towels, which he tosses to Uldren and the Hunter.

“Fucking me after another man has come inside me. That is something you enjoy.”

Jolyon lays a hand on his heart, looking theatrically betrayed. “I can’t believe you’d expose my kinks in front of the Hunter like that. I thought this was a safe space.”

“I’m sure he could have deduced it himself from your uncontrollable excitement at finding his semen still in me. And how you made me crawl and beg…and all the whore talk—you really lost yourself in the role, didn’t you.”

“You’re welcome, and I did. But I must admit to being a little embarrassed. I do have to work with him, after this. What if he bullies me?”

“To be fair, I was going to bully you regardless,” the Hunter interjects.

“No one is bullying anyone,” Uldren proclaims. “Commander Zavala is adamant about me taking the Hunter Vanguard position, so I’ll be your boss, too. You’ll both have to listen to me.”

“Is the Hunter Vanguard really our boss?” the Hunter asks, squinting doubtfully. “I thought it was more of an advisory role.”

“Well…I’ll outrank you. And I already do. Literal royalty, in case you’ve forgotten.”

“If you want to judge by that scale, aren’t you and your sister pretty much your people’s gods?”

“She is. I’m just her brother. Did you know that’s my official surname? Queensbrother. We both get blasted with divine radiation, she ascends to godhood, I turn blue and get to be defined by my relationship to her for the rest of eternity.”

“But you’re a Guardian now,” the Hunter offers. “So…I guess you can be defined by your relationship to the Light instead.”

“Or your two handsome, dashing, extremely virile lovers,” Jolyon suggests. “Nothing creates a sense of national pride among the people like knowing how heroically our prince can take two dicks at once.”

“I think I’ll decide on my own, if that’s alright with you two,” Uldren replies dryly. “I’m going to take a bath. You’re welcome to shower and eat, but don’t disturb me for a while.”

“How do we shower without disturbing him in the bath?” the Hunter asks Jolyon, as the prince pads out of the room.

“There’s another bathroom behind that wall panel. It’s smaller and doesn’t adjoin his dressing room, so he uses the one out there.”

“He’s not the communal bathing type, is he. He has never once allowed me to shower with him.”

“No, he is not. He’s only let me a few times, and he made sure I knew he hated it.”

“So…elephant in the room, we just fucked a man together. How did I not know you were into men?”

Jolyon shrugs. “I didn’t know you were, either. I don’t advertise my sexuality one way or the other, and it doesn’t really come up organically in conversation, in our line of work.”

“I guess it doesn’t. Not to mention I wasn’t about to let anyone know I’d been in love with the prince, who hated me and who everyone thought I killed.”

“You could have told me it wasn’t you who killed him,” Jolyon says, his jaw muscles tensing with carefully controlled emotion. “You should have told me.”

The Hunter shakes his head. “I didn’t know what he was to you, Jolyon. If I’d known, I would have told you, and it would have been a mistake.”

“I know. I know you’re right. But I’ve gotten used to being angry with you about him. I suppose blaming you for the way I feel is easier than accepting the complexity of the situation.”

“It’s ok to be angry with me. I lied to you and him. I had good reasons, but it still hurt you both.”

“I don’t want to be. It’s exhausting to carry a grudge, particularly against someone with whom you’ll be sharing a bed.”

“Sharing a—wait, what?” the Hunter laughs uneasily. “You mean we’ll be sharing his bed. With him.”

“That’s not how this works, Hunter. We can’t both be fucking him and trying to stay on our own sides of the line. All three of us have to be all-in or it’ll implode. So, like it or not, you and I are in a relationship now, too. But I think you will like it. I know I will.”

The Hunter immediately flushes crimson and casts his eyes down at the bedsheets, muttering something unintelligible.

“Come here,” Jolyon says, holding out his hand.

He looks up, hesitating, then takes it and lets him pull him to his feet. His heart pounds in his throat. Jolyon draws him close, one hand sliding around his waist and the other cupping his chin. His stomach does a flip as his friend leans down and kisses him. He is keenly aware of the warmth of his skin and the taste of his mouth, as well as his body’s undeniable reaction to his touch.

Jolyon laughs and presses his hard cock against the Hunter’s hip. “Why don’t we have that shower. If Uldren won’t bathe with us, it’s his loss.”

At that moment, the prince is reclining in the steaming water of his oversized bath tub, staring at the intricate patterns in the white stone pillars that support the vaulted ceiling. Crystalline growth arrays, smoothed and polished out of most flat surfaces, but still visible at the edges of the massive slabs of stone. Proof that this city was grown, not built. Raised into existence by the will of the one he calls sister, though only the two of them have known since the awakening how close or distant that kinship is.

He wonders if she felt herself losing Mara Sov, as the superior being took over the consciousness, the way he feels himself losing Eli, as Uldren’s far older and stronger mind lays claim to the soul that had been his own. He must trust the real Eli, the one who is now called Hunter, to keep the other alive in Uldren’s mind. For young and naïve though he may have been, he was the better man. He was the man Uldren would have been, had he not been shaped in the forge of his sister’s overpowering will. A will that shapes worlds. The will of a god.

But a day will come when he will be the voice of another god. A god far more powerful than she. And he will be made worthy to be so not by her, but by the love of the Hunter and the wisdom of the Saint, and the strength of the Rachis, the supporting axis upon which he has always depended. But he must not forget the devotion of the Ghost. His dear Lisianthus, named for a little purple flower in Earth’s green fields, whose existence binds him to the Light.

As if these thoughts have summoned him, he hears a whirring sound and looks up to see his diminutive friend gliding in through the open window. He seems so at home in this place, with his glittering Reef-made shell, amidst all the beauty of the queen’s dearest city. Uldren’s heart sinks as he observes the Ghost’s hesitation to approach him.

“Hello, Lis,” he says, putting as much of Eli’s youthful animation into his voice as he can. “I was wondering when you’d come back. Is Ghost with you?”

“Hello, Prince Uldren,” Lis replies warily. “Ghost has gone to find his own Guardian. I am here because you are mine.”

Uldren sighs. “Lis…when I said I wasn’t a Guardian and you weren’t my Ghost, and cursed the Traveler and all lightbearers, my mind was in a million pieces. I was experiencing every horrible, painful memory of Uldren’s life all at once. I wasn’t even sure what was real.”

“I understand. Still, you should know that you do not have to be a Guardian, if you do not wish to be. There are lightbearers who are not. But whatever you choose to do, I will never leave you. If you want to be rid of me, you will have to destroy me.”

“You can’t think I want to be rid of you. You don’t think that. Do you?”

“Prince Uldren, you were angry with me, and you had every right to be. You cursed me bitterly for being part of this plot to let you die so that you would be reborn. Though I was not aware of it, I am partly to blame. I should have been more cautious about gifts given in seeming kindness. I should not place so much faith in the goodness of others. This is the price I am paying for my foolishness.”

“Your faith in the goodness of others is beautiful, Lis. I would never have you change that. My sister deceived you, yes, but she is a power beyond either of our reckoning. She would have accomplished her design with or without you.”

“Maybe. But the fact remains that I was aware the Hunter knew you before you died, and I never told you. If I had, you would have been better prepared to make such a momentous decision.”

Uldren’s brow furrows and he looks down at his hands in the clear water. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I believed in the doctrine we are all given, that Guardians should not know their past lives, nor try to live as the person they were before, but now I find myself questioning the very source. I know that a general principle, applied blindly to every situation is an absurdity, often amounting to monstrous cruelty. By following my dogma rather than my heart, I have been party to that cruelty. I have wounded the one I love above all others, and I have lost him.”

“Perhaps…you will grow to love me,” Uldren says quietly, to conceal the tremor in his voice.

Lis turns his lens to look him full in the face. “Do you love me, Prince Uldren?”

“Of course I love you. How can you even ask me that? I love you more than I can tell you. More than I love the Hunter, or even Jolyon. You are my heart, Lis. You are my soul.”

“Oh, no—please do not cry,” Lis says, flitting urgently about, as if he might be able to do something to stop the heavy tears that are rolling down his Guardian’s beautiful face, and splashing into his bath. “I did not intend to be unkind. Only to assess where our relationship stands, since you are no longer…you.”

“But I am still me,” Uldren sniffles. “I’m not Eli anymore, but I lived his life. His memories are mine. Nothing has changed but that I have all of my old memory back, too, and I am not quite the same person I was when it was all taken away.”

Lis lowers his lens contritely. “I am sorry, Prince Uldren. I have been thinking of you and my Guardian as separate people, but that is unjust of me. You were chosen because of who you were in life. So, I suppose Eli was really just a part of you, and you are the whole you.”

“That is true,” Uldren says, smiling through his tears. “Eli isn’t gone, he was just…reintegrated into my whole self. You must promise not to let me forget him. To be perfectly honest, I liked him better than I like this version of me.”

“I do not know this version of you yet, but I have heard many stories of your strength and courage, and love for your people. And if the Hunter and Jolyon Till love you, then you must be quite a remarkable man.”

“Remarkable?” Uldren laughs. “You can ask them if they think so when they’re done fucking in my shower. At least, I assume that’s what they’re doing, since I haven’t heard any gunshots.”

“Based on my observation of the three of you, I would say the likelihood that they are engaged in some form of sexual activity at this moment is very high.”

“Lis…I have to tell you something,” Uldren says, coming to the side of the bath and resting his elbows on the rim. “I had a dream. A very strange, vivid dream. In it, a man took me to the top of the old Tower and spoke to me of the Light and the Traveler, and many things that I did not fully understand. The strangest part was that he specifically instructed me to tell you about the dream. And he told me to say some words to you, just as he said them to me. He repeated them to be sure I remembered.”

Lis tilts his shell curiously. “That is strange. What were the words?”

“He said I should tell you—” Uldren clears his throat and switches to his native tongue, which was how the man spoke to him in the dream, using the strong, female pronoun. “She is the flame and I am the light. She is the breath and I am the voice. She is the word…and I am the speaker.”


	5. Part Four: The Rachis (Original Ending)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the original ending that I wrote for this story, but decided not to post because the alternate ending was shorter and a lot more fun. I feel it ultimately did a disservice to the direction I had intended the story to go, so I have decided to post my original ending. It is longer and does not have all the fun sexy bits, and some of it is a lot sadder, but I personally find it more satisfying and feel it expresses the intent of the story and character arcs more fully. I've posted the whole chapter, but it does not begin to diverge from the other version until after Eli and the Hunter are reunited, so skip ahead if you want to avoid rereading the same material. This is all spectacularly out of canon, now, but it doesn't really matter because this is my story world, not Bungie's. Anyway, enjoy the far less sexy but far more emotionally developed ending. If anyone is even still reading this after "does not have all the fun sexy bits." Which I doubt.

For the past three days, the Hunter has been absolutely beside himself with anxiety for his friend, and has been driving his Ghost nearly to distraction with his pacing and fretting. Finally fed up, Ghost orders him in no uncertain terms to get out of the house and go to the Tower, where he can at least annoy other people for a while.

As usual, the Hunter grumbles about being ordered around, and also as usual, does as his Ghost tells him. The other people he has been told to annoy turn out to be his Huntress friend Karja, who catches him in the Bazaar and is eager to tell him about her latest assignment, clearing a Hive nest with one of the Vanguard’s Eliksni allies from the House of Light.

“You did a mission with Mithrax?” he asks distractedly, as he seats himself across the table from her.

“No, Hunter, why would the Kell go on a routine extermination?” she laughs. “His name is Ryksis. A Captain.”

“Oh, really? That sounds interesting.”

Karja arches a black eyebrow. “Does it? Because you look the way I look when Master Rahool is explaining his deep passion for cryptograms to me.”

“Hm? Shit. I’m sorry, Karja,” the Hunter says, rubbing his eyes with his palms. “I don’t mean to be an asshole. I’m just really worried about Eli.”

“Eli…your little pal with the cute ass who never takes his helmet off?”

“Yeah, that’s—wait, cute ass? Is that all men are to you?”

“Pretty much. Why are you worried about him?”

“He’s on a sort of solo mission right now. It’s dangerous and I just…I’m worried.”

“He’s a Guardian too, Hunter. Whatever it is, I’m sure he’ll be ok. Unless he did something to piss off Shin Malphur.”

“Shin Malphur? Oh, did he send you a bunch of threatening messages, too?”

“Just one. I responded with some very colorful descriptions of what I’d do to him if we ever met, but he hasn’t written back yet. Fingers crossed!”

“Do to him, like, sexy or hurty?”

“Honestly, he could take it either way.”

“Karja, I swear to the Traveler, if you get into a fight with Shin—”

“Relax, you big baby. I can take care of myself. I might not be down for playtime if he comes around, anyway.”

The Hunter crosses his arms. “Ok, who are you and what have you done with the real Karja?”

“The real Karja’s in la-la land, babe. Got her brains fucked thoroughly out. She may never come back.”

“On your mission with—” the Hunter’s eyes go wide. “Wait. Tell me you did not fuck that Eliksni Captain, because I can’t handle that kind of shock right now. You did. Oh my god, you did.”

She shrugs. “Are you really that surprised?”

“No, but I had fun pretending. Tell me everything immediately. In elaborate detail.”

“Well, I met him at the House of Light Ketch, and he was—”

“Wait, sorry, one sec. Oh, thank the sky, it’s Saint-14’s frequency,” the Hunter says, tapping his comm link as he hops up from his chair. “I’m so sorry, I have to go.”

“Saint-14? I thought it was Eli you were worried about.”

“Yeah, Saint is with him.”

“Then why the fuck are you worried about him?” Karja calls after him, as he hurries away. “Goddamned idiot men. Can you believe this, Roxy?”

“Based on my observation of human males, I find this one’s behavior to be extremely believable,” her Ghost answers chirpily.

“No more human males for me, then,” Karja grins. “Ooh, let’s go tell Tess. She’s a total freak, she’ll love it.”

Ghost sets down the Hunter’s jumpship on a landing pad adjoining a spired tower, looming high above the Dreaming City. Guardians are not normally allowed in this part of the city, but they have been given special landing dispensation by the Regent Commander. This was transmitted to them through Geppetto, along with the coordinates, and an apology from Saint-14 that he will not be there to meet them, as his presence is urgently required back at the Tower.

The Hunter exits the ship by transmat and is told by a waiting Corsair that his friend can be found in the chapel below. Every building here looks like a chapel to him, however, so she has to point out the exact one she means. This chapel among chapels is a basilica-shaped structure, a level down from the landing pad and across one of these interminable skybridges, with their defiant lack of any kind of safety railing whatsoever.

He thanks the woman and hurries down a wide staircase, then another, then finally across the bridge. Inside the arched doorway of the white-walled and glittering-purple domed cathedral, he sees Eli standing in his gold-trimmed cloak and crimson trousers. His back is to the door and he is gazing down into a reflecting pool, where schools of tiny, shimmering light-fish flit in and out between the pads of the serene lilies.

“Eli, I’ve been so worried,” the Hunter says, as he comes up behind him. “Are you alright? What happened to you?”

Eli turns slowly and looks up at him, with a taut, thin-lipped smile. “A lot, it would seem.”

The Hunter reaches out a hand to touch his friend, but quicker than sight, Eli has caught him by the throat and slammed his back against the wall, stunning him and knocking the wind out of him. Even for a Guardian, his strength is terrifying. The Hunter is aware that he is feeling only an inkling of its true magnitude, as Eli holds him pinned there with one hand, looking into his face. His expression betrays no emotion, but there is something new in those molten-gold eyes. Recognition.

“Eli, please—” the Hunter begins, but his words are strangled by the iron grip tightening around his throat.

“My name is Uldren,” he says, in a taunting, serpentine tone. “But you knew that already.”

The Hunter’s knees almost give way beneath him. He hasn’t heard him speak like this since the Prison of Elders, more than two years ago. His posture—head tilted slightly back and to one side, with an expression of supreme disdain on his perfect features—this was a mannerism of Uldren’s, but never of Eli’s.

“Of course I knew!” the Hunter gasps, straining to pry the immovable fingers from around his neck. “How could I not? I’m the one they sent to—”

“To hunt me down like a dog and murder me in a sanctuary of my people? Yes, I remember. Tell me one thing, Guardian.” He leans in close, so the Hunter can almost feel his breath on his face. “Why didn’t you take the shot?”

“That wasn’t the job. I was only—only there to bring you in.”

“With a gun to my head?”

“Whatever it took to stop you. You were too dangerous to take any chances. But it was never my intention to kill you.”

“I killed your friend. You didn’t want just a little bit of revenge?”

“He wasn’t my friend!” the Hunter snarls, still struggling ineffectually in his grasp. “I was trying to save you! Then Petra shot you and I couldn’t do anything but stand there and watch you die. It fucking—it fucking destroyed me.”

“Really,” Uldren sneers. “And why should my death matter so much to you?”

“Because I was in love with you, you asshole!”

The fiery eyes remain fixed on his, but the tranquil expression flickers. “You…what?”

“I know how fucking stupid it was, ok? I know what you are and what I am. I never entertained the slightest idea that we would—that you would ever think of me as anything but a worthless dog, but that didn’t change the fact that I loved you.”

“You loved…me. _You_. You dared to think of—” the scornful smile fades and the furrows in his brow deepen. “I see it now. That was the reason you were so kind to me. Why you took me under your wing and made yourself my friend. You couldn’t have me, but this body was enough.”

“No, Eli—”

“Uldren!”

“Uldren—Uldren, please, listen to me. You were murdered and I failed to prevent it. I owed you a debt I could never repay. When you came back as one of us, it was like I had a second chance to do right by you. You were alone in this world, with that face and no memory…you needed a friend so badly. Someone who would be on your side, no matter what. That’s all I meant for it to be.”

“How could you keep all of this from me?” Uldren demands, his dark, velvety voice beginning to waver. “How could you call yourself a friend while you were lying to me like that? How could you do it!”

“How could I lay the burdens of a man you couldn’t remember being on you?” the Hunter returns. “I was in love with Uldren Sov. If I’d told you who you were, it would’ve been for the wrong reasons. I had no right to force you to be the man I wanted you to be, when you had a chance at a clean slate. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Uldren bares his white teeth. “How pretty. But your noble conscience didn’t stop you fucking me.”

“Uldren, I watched you die,” the Hunter pleads. “I spent two years bleeding out over you, seeing your death over and over again in my head, every time I closed my eyes. Hearing your voice, asking me which side I was on, every time there was silence. Then you reappeared right in my path, like it was fate, and I fell in love with you all over again. When you said you wanted me, too…how could I be expected to refuse you?”

Uldren’s grip on his throat eases, then he releases him entirely and backs away a step, looking suddenly disoriented and unsteady. “You loved me…before. I knew you before.”

The Hunter swallows hard, rubbing his bruised neck. “For what it’s worth, it was my friend Eli I was with. Not Uldren Sov’s body.”

“I…I was Eli? But you were—” Uldren’s eyes dart back and forth, as if he’s reading some invisible text written in the air between them. Then his expression softens. “That was before. I remember now. We fought side by side. We were friends. I think…I think I am still your friend.”

“I hope you are,” the Hunter ventures. “But you’re Uldren, too. How is this possible? What happened to you?”

“My sister’s witches,” Uldren answers, gesturing vaguely in the direction of another tower. “They put my memory back in my head. Thousands of years, all at once. I’ve been having…a difficult time, sorting it all out. You were from long ago, but…you’re also from now. I’m here now, but I was here before, too. I know my Ghost from now. He brought me back. Now I am one of you.”

“You know what you are? You understand?”

“I’m not an idiot, Guardian. I’m only confused about time and where exactly people and events fit into it. The witches called it chronological dissociation, but I suspect they made that up on the spot. Saint-14 was here with me, for a while. He helped me through the worst of it. I think…he said you would come. Yes. That’s why I waited here. I wanted to see you.”

“I’m so sorry. Zavala and Saint went after you and they wouldn’t let me go with them. They didn’t tell me anything about any of this, though. Are you in pain?”

“No. And…yes. Pain comes like waves on a shore. Memories wash in and out. Did you know that I was human, once? We were human. You and I.”

“I did know. I always wanted to ask you about the colony ships and the Collapse, and what it was like in the Distributary, but we were enemies. And even when we weren’t, you hated me.”

“But…you were there,” Uldren’s eyes flicker over his face, then away. “You don’t remember. I remember you from the Taken War. The Young Wolf. So handsome and arrogant in your shining armor, thinking you would conquer the Black Garden where I had failed. And you did it. You cut out its heart.”

“No one has called me Young Wolf in a long time.”

“Not so long. But I remember you from now, too. Still handsome and arrogant. Like Jolyon, but less of both.”

“Thanks,” the Hunter says wryly.

“Jealous of Jol,” Uldren laughs. “A child’s reaction to half the truth.”

The Hunter is aware that he is thoroughly outmatched in both wit and education by his far older companion, but being dismissed as a child rather annoys him. Uldren abruptly changes mood and tone, however, throwing him entirely off balance.

“Hunter, I’m—I’m hurt,” he says, suddenly breathing hard. His hands close into fists at his sides. “You hurt me. You’re an insect compared to me, how can you have enough power to hurt me?”

The Hunter stands at ease, leaving his posture open. If Uldren decides to hit him, that will be the least of what he deserves. “I’m so sorry. I know how unworthy I am of you. I tried to tell you.”

“You…you did. You did try to tell me. But I wanted you anyway. I pursued you and possessed you. You were mine before. You’re still mine. You belong to me.”

He takes hold of the Hunter’s collar and pushes him against the wall again, but he pins him with his body, rather than by his throat, and cards his fingers through his short, silver-white hair. From force of habit, the Hunter’s hands come up and rest on his hips.

“You undying child…you’re in my blood. Under my skin,” Uldren murmurs. “I remember how you feel, inside me. I haven’t been inside you, though.”

“No, you—you haven’t,” the Hunter stammers, as Uldren’s hand slides down his thigh.

“I could take you now, if I wanted to,” he purrs, his lips brushing the Hunter’s ear, and his hot breath on his neck. “Maybe I will.”

The Hunter’s head spins as Uldren’s mouth covers his, hips grinding against him as their tongues roll over each other. His cock is rigid and aching, straining against his clothing at the thought of being held forcibly down and fucked by this beautiful, powerful man.

Uldren pulls away, lips bruised and flushed, pupils blown wide in his ignited irises. The Hunter watches helplessly as he unfastens his belt, then undoes his fly and pulls out his hard cock. His other hand takes the Hunter by the throat again, holding him in his white-gold gaze. There is nothing of Eli in those eyes, now. This is the proud, ruthless, age-old prince of the Awoken, and he will do as he pleases with him.

The Hunter stares back at him, unable to look away. He is pushed roughly to his knees, mouth already wet and open for Uldren’s cock, which is thrust in to the hilt, all at once. He moves his tongue against the shaft in hungry anticipation, feeling it growing hotter and stiffer in his mouth.

“Don’t swallow it,” Uldren says calmly. “Spit it on the floor in front of you.”

The Hunter ignores his aching jaw, letting saliva pour down his chin, never gagging or even flinching as his throat is fucked hard and fast, with little regard to his personal comfort. Uldren groans as he gives one more deep thrust, his cock convulsing in the Hunter’s mouth, filling it with hot, salty fluid. He lets go abruptly and steps back. The Hunter leans over dutifully and lets the fluid drizzle out of his mouth, splashing into a luminescent puddle on the dark, glassy surface of the floor.

Uldren steps around behind him and yanks him back by his hair, bending down to speak into his ear. “Make yourself come for me. Right there, in the same spot. I want to see it.”

The Hunter reaches down and fumbles hastily with his fly, pulling his aching cock out of his soaked underwear. Uldren’s hands slide down and close around his neck, squeezing his throat as he strokes himself feverishly, till his head buzzes and dark spots creep before his eyes. He comes just before his vision goes entirely black, hips jerking erratically as his cock spurts bursts of fluid onto the floor.

The hands release his throat and blood rushes back into his head. He nearly topples forward, but Uldren catches him by his shoulders and holds him steady. He stands there on his knees, blinking dazedly down at the mingled milky-white and luminescent spatters all over the smooth, deep-purple stone, while Uldren pets his hair and murmurs words of praise, of which his ringing ears fail to make any sense. He is pulled to his feet again and they refasten their trousers and belts in silence, then Uldren goes over to peer out of the archway.

“Don’t worry about that,” he says, turning to see the Hunter with his scarf out, about to attend to the mess on the floor. “I hope one of those miserable witches slips in it. It would serve them right for torturing me.”

“You sure?”

“Technically, this all belongs to me. If I can’t come on my own floors, what’s the point of being a prince?”

The Hunter laughs aloud at this, and would have pulled Eli in for a kiss, but handling the Awoken prince that way is an entirely different matter. Wars have started over lesser affronts. He is extraordinarily fortunate, in fact, that his actions have not already done so.

“It will always stand between us, if you let it,” Uldren says, as if he’s read his mind. “I’m the same man I was when you pushed me into that river on Earth. I just remember more of myself, now.”

“I hoped you’d forgotten about that,” the Hunter mutters. “In my defense, it was pretty funny. And I did go in after you.”

“Yes, and then you said we should ‘get out of these wet clothes’, which is why I think you did it in the first place.”

“It worked, didn’t it?”

“Yes. We fucked against a tree on the riverbank.”

“We had to because you said it would be gross to do it in the water. You were right, but that deer was _very_ surprised.”

Uldren smiles, and for a moment, he is almost all Eli. He steps close and hangs his arms around the Hunter’s neck, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. “I want to fuck you properly. Let’s go home.”

“Isn’t this your home?”

“I mean my private rooms. They’re in that tower over there and they’re idiotic. You should come just to laugh at the ridiculous amount of space I have.”

“You never liked any of the pomp and circumstance, did you.”

“Maybe, when I was very young,” he sighs, and Eli submerges again. “A mind as old as mine craves simplicity more than anything. The trappings of wealth are fetters, and all that. Will you come with me?”

“Lead the way, your, uh…highness?” the Hunter says, earning an eye-roll and a toss of the silky, black and white hair. “I’m not trying to be funny. I have no idea what it’s appropriate to call you.”

“Right. I forgot you’ll have to be trained not to embarrass me in public.” Uldren bites his lip thoughtfully. “There’s too much to explain. For now, if there are other people around, call me Prince Uldren, and don’t speak to me unless I speak to you first. When you’re talking to third parties, it’s acceptable to refer to me as the prince, Prince Uldren, or his—ugh— _highness_ , which I loathe.”

“What about when we’re, um…when you and I are…when there are not other people around?” the Hunter asks awkwardly, blushing to the ears.

“I’m beginning to believe you turn your skin pink just to tempt me to injudicious action,” the prince answers, eyeing him the way a lion eyes a gazelle. “When we’re alone, you may call me by my name. If your mouth is otherwise unoccupied.”

Despite the prince’s professed desire to show him the suite of rooms, the Hunter barely gets to form any opinion of them at all, before he is herded into the bedchamber, pushed onto his back in an enormous, silk-sheeted bed, and forcibly relieved of his armor and clothing. Some time later, they are still lying together, naked and thoroughly exhausted. The Hunter is tracing the shimmers of light that pass over Uldren’s chest with his fingertips, trying and failing to discern a pattern in them.

“My sister did this to me,” Uldren says listlessly, staring up at the vaulted ceiling.

“Did what?”

“She knew what was happening to me, and never told me. She let me lose my mind. Kill our own people. Live in exile and humiliation for years. All to serve her design.”

The Hunter pushes himself up to look into his face. “Which design? Because—no offense—it seems like she has a lot of them.”

“You know her well,” Uldren says, with a bitter smile. “When you came to us before the Taken War, demanding entry to the Black Garden, I didn’t want to deny you on a personal whim. I had been into the Garden. I had seen its heart. I asked my sister to deny you because by giving you her leave, she was sending you to your death.”

“You survived, though. The way you were, without a ghost to res you. Why did you assume I wouldn’t?”

“Because I didn’t really survive. When Jolyon and I made our way out, I believed we’d escaped unscathed, but we hadn’t. Neither of us. He was only scarred, but I had been poisoned. The thorns pierced deep and the venom festered in my mind. I was sick with it, long before Riven’s whispers.”

“Why didn’t you…I don’t know. Try to get help?”

“I wasn’t aware of it. My sister saw it from the first, but she judged me too weak to withstand it and counted me among the lost. But her lover, Sjur Eido—the one who gave you that bow—saw visions. One of these concerned my death and my rebirth in the Light. A lightbearer with…a role to play in future events. She told Mara what she’d seen, and Mara believed it was the way the Garden’s corruption would be cleansed from me.

She decided that if this was to be my path, she must let me go and let me die, to be reborn, as I had been chosen to be. But she’d seen what the Traveler did to its children, erasing their minds and making them its own things, and she didn’t like it. So she formed a plan of her own.

In the vision, Sjur also saw a Ghost visit the court, and depart with a reefmade shell, and so my sister had one crafted with a special modification, to await the time when this Ghost would come seeking its Guardian. She and her witches created the most powerful crystallized memory that had ever been made, for use on me. When the Ghost appeared, Mara gave the shell to him as a gift, but told him nothing. The crystal, she stored here with instructions for Petra, and left me to my fate.

You know the rest. I went mad and brought the wrath of the Vanguard down on myself, in the form of you. Then, when you failed to be the mindless killer they all took you for, Petra was forced to pull the trigger herself. She wasn’t confident in Sjur’s visions, but her love for Mara has no bounds. Because of her devotion to my sister, she had no choice but to kill me and hope it was not in vain. And here I am. Lightbearer and myself, also. Memory intact.”

“So…Petra killed you to save you? Because Mara told her you’d come back as a Guardian?”

“Yes. You understand why she didn’t tell you.”

“Yeah, she wanted it to be me. She knew I was strong enough to kill you, and she thought I was consumed by vengeance over Cayde’s death, just like everyone else did. I was the perfect pawn. Until I wasn’t.”

“If you would forgive her, I’d be grateful. She’s one of my oldest friends.”

“Alright, but you have to tell Jolyon I didn’t kill you. He’s fucking pissed at me.”

“He knows. The two of us figured that out before Mara’s spell mindfucked me into a three day fever-dream. But he was never as angry with you as the two of you like to pretend. Particularly not now. The…benevolence of the victor, I suppose.”

Had he driven a knife into his chest and split his ribcage in two, it would have caused the Hunter less pain than these softly spoken words. His grey-green eyes freeze to a spot somewhere across the room and do not move from there, even when Uldren takes his hands and kisses them.

“Jolyon has been my lover for many centuries, Hunter,” he says gently. “We’ve both taken others, of course, but our hearts have always belonged first to each other. Mine belongs to him, still.”

“I see,” the Hunter says, in a taut, emotionless voice. “I didn’t know you were—he spoke of you as a friend. He also spoke of a wife.”

“Laviska. He loved her dearly and so did I. She was killed in the Hildian Campaign during the Reef Wars. He was never the same after he lost her. If only he’d had her still when I…when I wasn’t there.”

“You can be there, now,” the Hunter says curtly, drawing away. “What are you doing fucking around with me? Why aren’t you already with him?”

Uldren looks down at his empty hands. The light from his eyes shines faintly on them in the dimness of the room. “This is cruel of me, isn’t it. To talk to you about the man I love, after we’ve just fucked.”

“It doesn’t feel great.”

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid my age has made me callous. I remember a time when I cared about whose cock went where, but Jolyon being assigned a breeding partner cured me of that. At first I was only furious. Then when he wanted to marry her…I was devastated. I tried to hate him. I tried hurt him, to push him away and shut him out completely, but he absolutely refused to let me. He was always there, by my side, the same beautiful, self-assured, smart-mouthed Jolyon. Eventually, I realized that nothing had changed, and he still loved me as he always had. His love for her was just another thing to bring him happiness.”

“So, you were…the three of you were—”

“No, of course not. She and I loved each other as friends. We loved the same man, so it was easy to find common ground.”

“And you think he and I both being in love with you will be a reason for us to maintain a friendship. Instead of the exact opposite.”

“Not friendship, exactly. You and he are already close, and you both sleep with men, so maybe it could be more.”

“I see. And what does he think of this?”

“You know what he thinks. Otherwise…we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”

The Hunter balks at this, his entire being revolting against the idea. Either accept the divided heart of the man he loves, or be left broken and alone. Cast off in favor of the one who truly owns that heart, and has possessed it for longer than he has lived in any lifetime.

“So you want me to be your…what? Your pet?” he says, with swiftly rising heat. “You want to keep me around for when the man you really love is too busy to fuck you himself?”

“You’re being cruel, Hunter,” Uldren says in that infuriatingly calm, low voice. “But you’re in pain and you don’t understand the source of that pain, so I don’t fault you for it.”

“You think I don’t understand why I’m hurt?” the Hunter demands. “You don’t think maybe it’s because I barely had my dick out of you before you told me you love someone else?”

“No. I think you don’t understand me. You believe that because I love Jolyon, I can’t love you just as much, but I do. If I thought you would agree to it, I would ask you to stay with us. You and him and me, on equal terms.”

“Don’t insult me by pretending it would be on equal terms. You two have been together for thousands of years. I’m nothing. I’m…a blip in the timeline of your lives.”

“No. You are the man Eli loves. But I am not only Eli who loves you, anymore. I am Uldren who loves Jolyon, as well. I will always be divided between my love for you and him. The best I could do would be what I’ve told you. The three of us together.”

“But I don’t want that. I don’t want part of you,” the Hunter says, his voice wavering with emotion. “I want you to love me the way I love you. I want you to need me and think about me, and miss me when I’m not there. I want to be your only one, like you are mine.”

“I know. That is why—” Uldren begins, but the Hunter cuts him off angrily.

“What I don’t want is to be with a spoiled prince who can’t choose between toys, so he thinks he can just take them all.”

“Now I am warning you, take care how you speak to me,” Uldren says icily, and suddenly he seems to be a cold and distant star, speaking down to the Hunter from a great height. Seeing his lover’s distress, he realizes what has happened, and forces himself to soften and seem more human again. “Would you talk to Eli this way? Would you try to hurt him with your words?”

“No,” the Hunter chokes, through an upwelling of tears. “But you’re not Eli. I don’t even know—who you are, anymore.”

“I am many things. Not all of them pretty. You fell in love with the idea of Uldren Sov, but you didn’t really know him. I fear, when you do get to know me, that you won’t like me very much.”

There are hot tears rolling down the Hunter’s cheeks now and splashing onto his bare chest, and he can do nothing to stop them. Uldren draws him close and wraps his arms around him, and he buries his face in the crook of his smooth, pale-blue neck. If this is how it ends, after all of this heartache and suffering—falling in love with this man and grieving his death, then his miraculous return, and falling in love all over again—then what has it been for? What does it mean? What does any of it mean?

“Maybe it doesn’t mean anything,” Uldren says, with that new, uncanny ability to read his mind. “Or, maybe it means there really is something as capricious and cruel as love, and as inescapable as fate.”

The Hunter sits back and looks into his pale-gold eyes, wiping his tears away. “If it’s fate, then why don’t you love me?”

“I do love you. So, I guess part of that fate is to break each other’s hearts. It isn’t up to either of us.”

“No, it is. It’s up to you. You could choose me and this life. You’re one of us. You’re a Guardian, chosen by the Light. The Awoken don’t own you. The queen doesn’t own you.”

“Neither do the Vanguard. But I won’t be joining my people in the Reef.”

“What? Then where the fuck are you going? We need you here.”

“And I need to be elsewhere. Urgently. You don’t know what’s coming, Hunter, but I do. I saw what Rasputin saw and I am afraid. I am…terrified.”

“Of what?”

“I lost my mind twice. My will—my _self_ was taken from me, twice. I’m afraid it’ll be taken from me again.”

“Uldren, you belong to the Light, now. The Black Heart is destroyed. Riven is dead. If you carry Ahamkara bones, they’ll whisper to you, which gets pretty annoying, and they will try to trick you into making wishes, but they can’t take your mind against your will. A Guardian can’t be corrupted without knowingly participating in it.”

“The bones…no, I’m not worried about those feeble whispers. My fear is that I may be willing to participate in my own corruption.”

“Why? How?”

“Because I am a lightbearer who also wields the Darkness.”

“The Darkness,” the Hunter repeats, taken aback.

“Yes. I can create dark ether. I’m sure you knew.”

“I knew you could before you died. You still can?”

“I can. Fikrul showed me, without intending to. And I could do so much more with the power. If I could harness and direct it properly, I could help other Guardians do the same, and then we may be able to face the Darkness on more equal footing. But I have no idea how to do that without yielding to it. Not yet.”

“That isn’t something you could learn to do here?”

“No. Guardians aren’t exactly known for their expertise in the arts of the Deep. Mara knows of someone, and Jolyon and I have to go and find her before it’s too late. I feel it calling to me already, and every day it is harder to resist. If I don’t leave before the Darkness makes its opening move, it will take me completely.”

“I don’t understand this, Uldren. Why would the Traveler bring you back like this, just to lose you to the Darkness?”

“Not to lose me to it. To use me as a weapon to fight it. This was always meant to be my role. This is why I was brought back.”

“How can you know that?” the Hunter demands. “How can it be your role to—”

“To choose to do what’s right instead of what I want for myself?”

“Don’t do that. It’s cruel.”

“I don’t mean to be cruel. Leaving is what I have to do, just as staying here is what you have to do. It’s your role to be the light that guides these people. It’s mine to walk in the shadows on their behalf, so they don’t have to see the ugly things that hide in the dark, waiting to devour them.”

The Hunter gazes into his beloved’s face for a long moment, but he knows he can’t change Uldren’s mind, any more than he’d have been able to change Eli’s. There is nothing left to say.

He turns away, clutching convulsively at his chest. “It hurts. Why does it hurt so much?”

“I don’t know. Thousands of years of existence and that’s the great wisdom I have to impart about love and loss. I don’t know why we love, and I don’t know why it hurts so much to lose who we love. But I hope it eases the pain somewhat, knowing that I didn’t want it to end this way. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“Loving you has never done anything but hurt me. Why should it be any different now.”

These words, spoken to him by a man he once thought beneath his notice, pierce the heart of the prince like a barbed blade. He feels the sting of the rebuke so deeply, it almost brings tears to his eyes. But he must keep control of himself, now. His lover must think him cold and heartless, if he is to be taught to let him go. Before the strong tree can grow, the choking weeds must be mercilessly uprooted.

“Thank you, Hunter,” he says, allowing just enough emotion to ripple through his silky voice. “For being my friend. For taking care of me and protecting me. I’d still be alone out there if it weren’t for you.”

“I know,” the Hunter replies shortly.

He pushes himself up from the bed and picks up his trousers, then collects his other items of clothing and armor and dresses himself rapidly, ignoring Uldren, who he knows is watching him. When he has got his holster strapped securely around his waist, he picks up his helmet and turns to go. At the door, he pauses, speaking without turning to look at him.

“When you see Jolyon, tell him he’s an arrogant jackass for me. And tell him…maybe one day, I’ll be happy for him. But not yet.”

Uldren opens his mouth to say goodbye, but the Hunter is already gone, leaving only the hollow echo of the door slamming shut behind him.

In the months after the Hunter named Eli quietly disappears from Tower life, other Guardians notice a dramatic change in his former partner. Previously, only Saint-14 had been aware when the Hunter’s bouts of low spirits would take him, but now the presence of his internal turmoil is made conspicuous by his absence. Not physical absence—he still visits the Tower regularly—but a sort of spiritual vacancy that has transformed him from the friendly, easy-mannered man they had all known, to a walking shadow, moving like a wraith among them.

He has stopped participating in Crucible matches, much to Lord Shaxx’s annoyance, and attends no non-mandatory gatherings. He can no longer be found chatting with the civilian merchants in the Bazaar, or driving Tess to distraction pretending not to understand Eververse’s exchange policy, or why she can’t show him the contents of bright engrams. He engages no one in conversation, in fact, only appearing to accept assignments and collect bounties, after which he immediately departs. He doesn’t even give Karja more than a nod of greeting when he sees her.

The majority of his casual acquaintances are vaguely sorry to see him this way, but assume that he will follow in the grand tradition of Guardians who come to such troubled waters and either find his way across or drown, and that one way or another, it’s none of their business. His friend Karja, however, is not burdened by an overly developed sense of respect for social boundaries, and she determines to damn well do something about it.

“Hey, Saint,” she says one day, stopping at the Titan’s moored ship in the hangar. “What’s going on with the Hunter? He’s been a total bummer since his little pal took off.”

“I have been aware of his being a bummer, Ms. Karja,” Saint-14 replies, as he scatters another handful of seeds before his warbling flock. “But he has suffered a difficult loss. We must be patient with him.”

“You mean Eli?” she says, surprised. “I didn’t know. I mean, I knew they were fucking, but I didn’t know they were, like…was he in love with him, or something?”

Saint turns away to stow the bag of bird seed, and she almost misses his quietly spoken answer. “He was.”

“Ok, but you’re his best friend, right? So do something about it,” she urges. “Cheer him up somehow.”

He lifts his gloved hands in a resigned gesture. “If I could help him, I would. But there is little that heals these things better than time.”

“Or a new boyfriend. That always perks me right the fuck up.”

“Yes, speaking of that, how are things with the weaponsmith?” Saint asks, in a disapproving tone that makes Karja laugh aloud.

“I’m not seeing him anymore, _dad_ , but I bet you’d like my new boyfriend even less, so I’m not telling you about him. Anyway, we’re talking about the Hunter right now. Who would be good for him…oh! That exo woman who runs the Black Armory. She’s drop-dead gorgeous. Except she’s super stuck up.”

“That is not very kind, Ms. Karja. But…yes, she is little bit stuck up.”

“Hmm. What about that hot blonde guard who just transferred from the City? What’s his name…Jor something. Jormund? Jorgen?”

“Jordan. He is good boy, but only twenty years old. Far too young.”

“Ugh, these humans and their stupid aging process. By the time he’s old enough for the Hunter he’ll look like Asher Mir. Who else is there…” Karja muses, biting her lip thoughtfully. “How about Lord Shaxx? He could definitely fuck some sunshine back into the Hunter. He’s so busy he’d never get around to it, though.”

“Shaxx? Pah!” Saint objects. “Shaxx is pompous old fool. He cares only for his contests and his glory. He is not worthy of the Hunter.”

“Then I guess he’s out of luck, since I’m off the market. Unless you’re planning on taking care of him yourself.”

“What does this mean, taking care of him?” Saint asks, sounding confused. “He is not a child.”

Karja narrows her cat-green eyes. “Oh, don’t you even try that routine with me, pal. You speak better Earth English than I do. If you don’t think anyone else is good enough for him, you must—”

“Karja, honey, how are you!” Geppetto breaks in loudly, materializing directly between the Huntress and her Guardian. “I haven’t seen you in a while! Where’s Roxanne? Roxy, get out here and say hello before your Guardian gets her foot any further into her mouth, will ya?”

“Hi, Geppetto,” Roxanne beams, emerging from behind Karja’s shoulder. “Karja, are you being good? What have you been doing to Saint-14?”

Karja lays a hand on her chest, all injured innocence. “Me? Nothing! I was trying to get him to pick a boyfriend for the Hunter, but he doesn’t like any of the options. Honestly, he’s being very unhelpful about the whole thing.”

“Ms. Karja, the Hunter does not need a boyfriend,” Saint says wearily. “He needs time to heal. His heart has been very badly broken. I fear…too badly, this time.”

Karja’s jocular demeanor dissolves and she frowns with genuine concern. “Oh, Saint—I’m sorry. I didn’t know it was so serious, or I wouldn’t have been joking around like that. Really. Is there anything I can do?”

Saint shakes his head. “I do not know. He was very much in love with that man, Eli. When he left, Hunter was…grief stricken. I have never seen him that way. Now he has withdrawn from everyone. Everything that he used to enjoy. He does not even go to pout on top of my ship anymore.”

“It’s been months, though. That’s a long time to be this wrecked over a breakup.”

“Perhaps, but the first time this man broke his heart, he was still grieving after two years.”

Karja blinks. “Wait—two years? I didn’t know he’d ever been seeing anyone that seriously. Why’d the asshole come back, then? Just to ruin his life again?”

“The circumstances were…complicated,” Saint answers evasively. “I know only that my friend suffers, and I can do nothing.”

“You could, you just won’t,” Geppetto remarks, in an undertone.

“Geppetto, do not be that way,” Saint admonishes. “You do not know what you are saying.”

Much to his surprise, and that of the Huntress and her Ghost, Geppetto whirls her tiny shell about and floats up close to his face, radiating righteous indignation. If she had hands, they would be on her hips.

“You know what? No. I’m tired of pretending you know better than me about this. You may be an exo, but apparently you’re just as much of an idiot as any organic man. The Hunter is in pain because he thinks his obsession with that beautiful monster was true love. Except he’s a child and he doesn’t even know what true love means. He fell for a pretty face and—surprise, surprise—the man didn’t deserve him and broke his heart. Now he’s wallowing in self-pity and you’re letting him do it, because you’re too damned stubborn to tell him—to tell him, uh…” she seems to abruptly lose steam and trails off, making a sound as if she’s clearing her throat. “To tell him…to cheer up. You know. Because life is short. That’s—yeah. That’s what I think. Sorry I got a little heated, everyone. I don’t normally use that kind of language.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” Roxanne cheerfully assures her. “Karja talks like a sailor with anger issues. I don’t even notice anymore.”

“A sailor!” Karja protests. “Anger issues, eh. I’ll give you that one. Anyway, I better get going. Got a bunch of patrols tonight. Later Geppetto. Saint, we’ll talk soon, ok?”

Saint-14 waves after her as she departs without waiting for an answer, Roxanne calling out a polite goodbye and whirring hastily away to catch up.

“Where are we going? You don’t have any patrols,” Roxanne says to her Guardian, as they hurry up the stairs to the Courtyard.

“We’re going to clean up a mess that a bunch of dumb boys made, as usual,” Karja replies. “Only this one probably won’t involve as much shooting.”

“Probably?”

“Depends how stubborn they want to be. Call my jumpship, Rox. We’re headed to the big City.”

The Hunter’s place of residence is in a high-rise building, almost equidistant between the Tower and the City center. The area is more industrial than residential, but has begun to take on the character of a haven for young, well-off people who don’t want to admit they’re part of the upper class, and so prefer a neighborhood that still has the appearance of being “authentic” and rough around the edges, while containing a ready supply of fashionable bars and cafes.

At the open door of a terraced penthouse, the Hunter stands barefoot in black trousers and a black undershirt, blinking confusedly at his unexpected visitor. “Karja, hi. How, uh…how do you know where I live?”

“Oh, please,” Karja sniffs, walking past him into his spacious dwelling. “You’re not in hiding, your address is in your file. I brought you dinner.”

“Um. Thank you. Why?”

“You’re welcome and it’s because I’m a wonderfully supportive friend,” she says, smiling sweetly as she sets a large, brown paper bag on the counter.

“Since when,” he asks, crossing his arms on his chest.

“Since you became a shitty friend,” she chirps. “That’s my Mongolian beef. This is yours. Yellow curry with tofu, cause you’re weird about meat you didn’t kill.”

“You remembered that? And I am not a shitty friend!”

“I said you became one. Recent development.”

“How do you know where everything is in in my kitchen?” he says, watching in helpless dismay as she opens the cabinet and removes plates, then takes silverware out of a nearby drawer. “Did you break in and case the joint?”

“I would have, but I wasn’t interested in your goody-two-shoes secrets. Everyone basically keeps everything in the same places, anyway. People are not that unique. Even dead people who came back to life with magic powers and no memories. You have anything to drink?”

“I…think I have some Redjack Cider Shaxx gave me. Unless you want herbal tea.”

“Shit. I assumed you’d have plenty of booze. Should I have brought booze?”

“I don’t really drink.”

“Good god, you are so boring. Redjack Cider it is. And why is this place so fucking clean? Your boyfriend do this for you?”

“No, Eli never came here. I have a maid service.”

Karja stops and shoots him a look. “You were with him for a year.”

“Yeah.”

“And he never came to your home?”

“He never asked to.”

“And you didn’t invite him. And you both thought that was perfectly normal. Wow, Hunter.”

“What?”

Karja shakes her head. “Just wow, is all. Which pristine surface do you want to eat on? Coffee table?”

“There’s a real table in the dining room,” the Hunter offers.

“Nah, this is good,” she says, placing the full dishes on the coffee table and sitting cross-legged on the floor. “I like the fireplace. I don’t have a fireplace. Actually, you could fit like, five of my apartment in here. Do you make a lot more money than me or something?”

“I work a lot. I don’t really know how all of that scales.”

“Probably has something to do with you being the most famous Guardian since Saint-14,” she says, as he opens two bottles of cider and sits down across the table from her. “Us peasants have to take the ‘ _not_ hero of the Red War’ contracts.”

“I’m not…famous,” the Hunter mumbles, flushing pink.

“Yeah whatever,” Karja says, through a mouthful of Mongolian beef. “So, you owe me an explanation.”

“For what?”

“Well, I showed up here expecting you to be a miserable, drunk wreck. Why do you seem so ok?”

“Because I’m ok?”

“Oh for fuck’s—how the fuck stupid do you think I am? We used to talk every day, then suddenly you’re a black hole and I’m supposed to believe you’re just fine?”

“I’ve been busy.”

“Wrong answer. You’ve spent the past six and a half months being an edgy ghost—the woo-woo kind, not the know-it-all Traveler-spore kind—and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it started right when your pal with the cute ass took off. So, talk to me. What happened?”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” the Hunter says, poking indolently at the cubes of tofu on his plate. “He left me for a better man. It’s over. That’s all there is to it.”

“A better man. Than you. Give me a fucking break. What does he have that you don’t? Two dicks?”

“He is Jolyon Till.”

Karja winces visibly. “Shit. Sorry, Hunter. I was gonna try to make you feel better, but…Jolyon Till. He is absolutely top-tier.”

“Thanks,” the Hunter says drily.

“That’s weird, though, cause I always thought he was into you.”

“Into—into me?” he sputters, nearly choking on his mouthful of cider. “Why would you think that?”

Karja shrugs. “Everyone knows Till hates Guardians, but the two of you were constantly buddying around. I just assumed you were fucking. I was pretty jealous, too. I’d give a limb to get into those leather pants.”

“Well, it was nothing like that. He was in love with someone else. Turns out it was the same someone I was in love with. Lucky me.”

“Hang on, your guy and Jolyon Till were already a thing? Like, before he came here?”

“Before he died.”

“But…that means you weren’t into the same guy, right? Because he wouldn’t have been the same him when he came back.”

“No, I was in love with him before he died, too.”

“Holy shit, this is way juicier than I thought,” Karja says, setting down her fork. “So, let me get this straight. You and Till were hot for the same dude. This dude died and came back as a Guardian, and after he did, you two got back together. Then he left you for Till.”

The Hunter shakes his head. “We weren’t together before he died. He was with Jolyon before he died, but we didn’t know that until he got his memory back.”

Karja makes a face. “Got…his memory back? What the actual fuck?”

“Petra and the techeuns did some kind of ritual and restored it. Zavala knew. He wasn’t crazy about it, but he gave it his official ok.”

“What kind of ritual restores the memory of a blanked out lightbearer? I know the Awoken practice some heavy-duty witchcraft, but that shouldn’t be possible, even for them.”

“Maybe not the Awoken generally, but it was a special case. And their queen is extremely powerful.”

“Yeah, powerful and dead,” Karja smirks. “What, did her spirit show up and put the whammy on him?”

“It was something she put in place years ago, before she died. It’s a long story, but apparently she had some prior knowledge of future events.”

“And she used this prophetic wisdom to give some random Guardian his memory back?”

“No. She…used it to give her brother his memory back.”

“Her broth—” Karja breaks off and her eyes go wide. “So wait, you were in love with Eli…and Eli was Uldren Sov? Your pal Eli with the cute ass was the insane prince who murdered Cayde-6 and tried to destroy the Reef?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t you kill him?”

The Hunter shakes his head. “Petra killed him. I was trying to save him.”

“Ah. Got it, got it. You were trying to save the guy who killed Cayde. Makes sense.”

“Does it?”

“No! It fucking doesn’t! How the fuck could you be trying to save that piece of shit! I mean, he was…goddamn, was he ever hot, but he murdered one of our own! Our Vanguard!”

The Hunter sighs wearily, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “This is why I don’t talk to anyone about it. The situation was too complicated to explain before the yelling starts.”

“Sorry, sorry. No more yelling, I promise. Please explain.”

“When Uldren killed Cayde, he was out of his mind. Riven was controlling him, pretending she was Mara, and making him believe he was working to save her. I was hunting him and since I was doing my job right, I learned everything about him. Got deep into his life and his head. And…I fell in love with him.”

“Didn’t hurt that he was dark and broody and prettier than most women, huh?”

“No. That did not hurt.”

“Man,” Karja laughs, leaning back on her hands. “I can’t believe you gave me shit about Banshee. It’s way more fucked up that you were fucking murder-prince after his factory reset.”

“I wasn’t fucking murder—we were friends. Eli and I were friends. Our relationship was separate from my feelings for Uldren. Until it wasn’t.”

“Until he got his brain back, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“How’d he take it?”

“Confusingly? He was furious at first. He choked me and yelled at me. Then he said he was still my friend. Then he choked me again, but it was the hot kind, while we fucked. Then we went back to his place and fucked a lot more. Then he told me he was still in love with Jolyon and he was leaving me to go off and find himself, or whatever. And that was that.”

“Well, you know what they say,” Karja pronounces, with an air of reflective wisdom. “Don’t fall in love with mentally-ill murderers, don’t lie to your amnesiac boyfriend, and never, ever compete with Jolyon Till over a man.”

“Do they…say those things?” the Hunter asks doubtfully, as he gets up to take their empty dishes to the sink.

“They should. It’d save everyone a lot of trouble. But I’m sorry you learned that particular lesson the hard way.”

“Thank you.”

“And listen, I know you got burned pretty bad, but that’s no reason to waste the rest of your life being heartbroken over a thing that was probably never going to work out in the first place.”

“I know. I know you’re right. I should never have been with him, but I was _so_ in love with him. It was like…an obsession. He was all I could think about, night and day.”

“And you had mindblowing sex, right?”

“Yes. Obviously.”

“How did you feel when you were with him? When his dick wasn’t in you, I mean.”

“I guess—wait a minute, I was the one with my dick in _him_. Why do you automatically assume he had his dick in me?”

Karja rolls her eyes. “You human men are ridiculous. Why is it so threatening to your masculinity to admit you like to be penetrated? You do like it, right? Because if not, maybe you shouldn’t be fucking other men.”

“Yes, I like it! And…I actually don’t know why I’m weird about admitting it. Probably some lingering primal stupidity that hadn’t evolved out of the species yet when I died.”

“I’ll say. And you didn’t answer my question. How did you feel when you were with him?”

The Hunter starts the faucet running and pours some soap into the sink basin, buying himself a moment to find the right words. “I don’t know, I felt…high. Like just being near him was this drug I couldn’t get enough of. It was so intense all the time. When he was with me, I felt exhilarated and alive, and when he wasn’t, it hurt just to breathe.”

“Extreme highs and devastating lows, madly in love and constantly worried he didn’t feel the same way. Hanging onto him with everything you had, because it always felt like he was a millisecond away from slipping out of your hands…that all sound about right?”

“Yes. And I was right. He did.”

“Yeah, honey, that’s not love. I mean, it is, but it’s the super unhealthy, addictive kind. Trust me, I’m kind of an expert.”

“Look, I know you’re trying to help, but I don’t need to hear this,” he says, shutting off the water. “I know it was addictive. And unhealthy. And that it was never going to work out, whether he was Uldren or Eli, because everything that happened between us was so far beyond fucked up, it doesn’t even sound real. But all of that notwithstanding, he broke my heart badly. He fucking gutted me. I’m angry at him for hurting me and I’m angry at myself for letting him, and there’s nothing I can do to change any of it. I just want to do my job and be left alone until I get over it.”

“Well, that’s not gonna happen,” Karja says, leaning against the counter. “You have a mess to clean up and I’m not planning on leaving you alone till it’s done.”

The Hunter sighs. “Karja, come on…”

“Don’t you use that tone of ‘Karja come on’ with me, do you think you’re the only reason I’m here? Think about your blast radius, Hunter. Think about who else may have caught some of the shrapnel from this.”

“I don’t know what you mean. No one knew we were romantically involved, and—”

“Except literally everyone who ever saw you together, go on.”

“Well, even if they did, no one knew who he really was but me.”

Karja arches an eyebrow. “No one?”

“No one but Zavala and Saint. Zavala figured it out on his own. I didn’t even know he knew until he told me Eli had taken off for the Shore and they were going to get him. Turned out he’d recognized him that first day, and he and Petra had been communicating the whole time, discussing what would be the best thing to do about him.”

“Leave it to big blue to have his own secret plot going on. But you did talk to your best friend about it.”

“Of course I did. It was Uldren fucking Sov. Everyone else hated him because he killed Cayde. Saint was the only person I could trust to be objective and help him.”

“Saint was Cayde’s friend, too.”

“I guess he was, yeah.”

“But you knew you could go to him. You knew he’d put his feelings aside and do what you asked, without hesitation. Because he cares about you more than he cares about himself.”

“No, I—” The Hunter pauses, staring down at the dishes in the soapy water. Then his shoulders slump and he cradles his forehead in his hand. “Fuck me. I am such a fucking asshole.”

“You really are.”

“I have been the worst friend.”

“You really have.”

“Hey, you want to give me a break? I just got my heart ripped out and shown to me twice. And now he’s out there somewhere having amazing sex with Jolyon Till and not even remembering I exist.”

“What a bastard. Having sex with Jolyon Till,” Karja says distractedly. “Who would even…do such a thing.”

“Karja, focus.”

“Hm? What? Oh, yeah. Totally focused. On you. And not on Jolyon Till and Uldren Sov. Together. Naked.”

“Hey! Stop imagining my ex-boyfriend having sex with my friend!”

“But they’re so hot,” Karja pouts, slouching over dramatically.

“Yeah, well, I’m the one with the broken heart, here. The least you can do is imagine him with me.”

“Don’t think I’m not. That’s gonna be useful when business is slow. Anyway, stop being a dick and go spend time with your best friend. He stuck his neck out for you in a big way, and you’ve been ignoring him for months.”

“It hasn’t been that long. Has it?”

“Six months. Almost seven.”

“Fuck. But I really haven’t been ignoring him. I’ve been dealing with all of this Uldren-Eli stuff, and also the Pyramids showing up and the Darkness sending me messages trying to convince me it’s not evil, not to mention Eris and Drifter calling me every five seconds to handle another contact point, and that’s all on top of trying to help Ana find Rasputin, and convince Asher and Sloane not to go kamikaze on the Pyramids.”

“The Darkness sends you messages? And it says it’s not evil?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s lying. It is obviously evil. But it gave me a really cool gun. That’s not the point. The point is that I’ve been totally swamped and I haven’t had time to think about—”

“Anyone but yourself?”

“That’s not fair.”

“We’re all selfish when we’re suffering, Hunter. I’m not judging you. I’m just saying it’s time to get over yourself and remember other people exist. People who love you and would die before they’d let anything hurt you.”

“So, not you.”

“Pfft. I wouldn’t even get a serious bruise for you. Go spend time with your best friend. And remember, he’s not a fucking robot. He looks like one, but he’s as human as you are. It’s just that when he gets his heart broken, he’s really good at hiding it.”

“Ok, that’s a little dramatic,” the Hunter laughs. “He might be disappointed in me, but he’s not heartbroken.”

Karja looks him in the eye and does not laugh. “How do you know?”

“Because that’s ridiculous…isn’t it?”

“Maybe it is,” she shrugs, switching immediately back to her easy, careless tone. “Just try paying attention, and listening instead of talking. You never know what you might find out. Anyway, I gotta go. I have sexy sex plans.”

“I thought you weren’t fucking Banshee anymore.”

“No, I’m seeing someone else. But you’re not getting any more details till you make things right with Saint.”

“Ok, ok, I’ll go see him first thing tomorrow. You happy?”

“Yes, I am,” she says brightly. “Later, babe. And remember what I said. Ears open, mouth shut.”

“Hey, Ghost,” the Hunter calls out, after she has gone. “Can you bring up that message Saint-14 left with the Perfect Paradox?”

“Sure,” Ghost replies, seemingly from inside his head. “You want it onscreen or should I read it?”

“Screen is fine. Thanks.”

There is a brief pause, then Ghost emerges and brings up his holographic projection, displaying the message the Hunter has requested. It reads as follows:

_I never found Osiris, but I've killed enough Vex to end a war. And they, in turn, struck a fatal blow: they completed a Mind with the sole function to drain the Light from me. It worked very well._

_Don’t worry (not that you worry much). It took them centuries to build, keyed to the unique frequency of my Light. And I sit atop its shattered husk._

_I mourn that I will never reach the heights you have. To me, you represent everything a Guardian can become. Yours is a thriving City. So different from mine. My whole fourteenth life I fought to make my City yours. I never finished._

_All I have left is this weapon. The Cryptarchs say you crafted it yourself, built it out of scraps and Light and sheer will, inside the Infinite Forge. I’ll make sure it finds its way back to you. When you gave it to me, I swore I would make it my duty to follow your example._

_I’m still trying._

_—Saint-14_

“I don’t know why he talks about me like this,” the Hunter says, falling into one of his black leather sofas. “He’s the one people practically mob in the streets to throw flowers at his feet and beg him to kiss their babies. They write fucking hymns about him.”

“It baffles me, too, believe me,” Ghost replies pertly. “But you’re a hero to him. He also said you gave him the inspiration to lead the Vanguard to victory at the Battle of Six Fronts.”

“Yeah, but that was just because we did that time-travel thing with the Sundial. He always won that battle.”

“Maybe that means you were always his inspiration.”

“That’s…not possible. How would that even work?”

“It’s called a paradox for a reason, Hunter. Don’t ask me how it works.”

“Well, you’re no help at all. Thanks for nothing, you mouthy micro-moon”

“You know what would help?” Ghost says, turning his lens on him. “You could take your head out of your ass. Then maybe you’d see what I see and Karja sees, and probably everyone else in the Vanguard, too, but has somehow managed to escape you.”

“Ghost! Language!” the Hunter gasps, looking theatrically appalled.

“Oh, shut it. Listen, I understood when you fell in love with Uldren, and why you were crushed after he died. And I supported you through everything with Eli, and never said I told you so after he broke your heart again. But I’m fed up with watching you bang your head against walls. It’s time to open your eyes and look at what’s right in front of you, before you screw up and lose it forever.”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about!” the Hunter says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “What’s in front of me? Lose what forever?”

“Are you trying to test my patience, Hunter? Because sometimes I can’t tell if it’s that, or if you can really be this dense.”

The Hunter shifts uncomfortably. “Well…just for the sake of argument, assume I’m as dense as you think and spell it out for me. Really dumb it down.”

“I swear to the Traveler—just do what Karja said. Go apologize to your friend. And stop taking him for granted. You have no idea lucky you are to have him.”

“Yes, I do. Saint-14 is a hero. A real one. I know exactly how lucky I am that someone like him chose me for a friend.”

“And for reasons known only to himself, he seems to feel the same way about you.”

“He thinks too highly of me because he’s so good, it doesn’t occur to him that other people aren’t. You’ve been with me every minute of my life, you know I could never live up to that.”

“Besides being a thick-skulled idiot, which I’m sure he knows too, you are exactly what he thinks you are. You have a seriously screwed up self-concept, Hunter. Which is why you think you deserve to be in chaotic messes like you got into with Prince Uldren.”

“No, Ghost, you can’t—”

“I know you hate hearing it, I don’t care. You are more than a good man, Hunter. You are a hero. And you deserve to be loved by someone as good and loyal and honest and brave as you are.”

“But I’m not those things. I’m weak and selfish and I’m scared all the time, because I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“And you do the right thing anyway. The hard thing. Always. It’s your actions that make you a hero, not your feelings. You make me proud that you’re my Guardian, every day.”

“Ghost…”

“I know. Don’t say anything else about it. I know.”

The Hunter turns onto his side and wraps his arms around himself, staring into the fireplace as the embers burn down, then the hologram resets and the flames roar up cheerfully again.

“I fucked everything up so badly,” he says, at long last. “Of course I only see it now that it’s too late.”

“You are so dramatic,” Ghost sighs. “Do you think a couple of months of you being an ass has changed the way your best friend feels about you?”

“It may have. Who’s to say he didn’t watch me mishandle all of this in the worst way possible and decide he’d been wrong about me and never wants to speak to me again.”

“Hunter, do you love him?”

“Of course I do. He’s my best friend. I’m not worthy to polish his boots, but for some reason, he’s my best friend.”

“Yeah well, fortunately for you, love is blind. So, congratulations. In ten years or so, when one of you finally gets around to admitting how much you care about each other, you’ll be very happy.”

“Thanks, asshole,” the Hunter says crossly. “I hope you and Karja are proud of yourselves. Like I wasn’t miserable enough about the guy who didn’t love me. Now I’m also miserable about the one who _does_ love me in a platonic way, providing I didn’t already ruin things between us forever.”

“Hunter, have you even been—”

“Have I been what?”

“Nothing. Go to bed. I’m getting you up early to fly to the Tower.”

First thing the next day (which, as per his usual habits, is around noon), the Hunter lands at the Tower, determined to make amends to his friend, as he had promised Karja and Ghost. From across the hangar, he spies the massive Titan standing beneath the canopy of his ship, talking cheerfully with a group of civilians and children, who have apparently come to meet the hero of the City.

Whether it’s remorse over having treated his best friend so poorly, or something else, the Hunter finds himself oddly hesitant to approach Saint-14. He feels awkward and exposed standing in the hangar with so many people around, though, so he calls on the Void and vanishes, going instinctively to the place where he had been used to hide when he was sad or overwhelmed and needed to talk, but didn’t want to ask for help.

After a few very long minutes, the chatty admirers make their salutations and depart. Saint draws out a bag of seeds and calls to his pigeons, who, having been skeptical regarding the human intruders’ motives, had repaired to a nearby railing to keep a wary eye on the proceedings. Coaxed by his cooing, or perhaps by the sound of the seeds hitting the ground, the flock return, squawking and ruffling their feathers to communicate their displeasure with the interruption.

“You should come down, too, my friend,” Saint says, when the affronted flapping has abated. “It is easier to talk when we can see one another.”

There is a pause, then Hunter’s mask pokes out over the side of the ship. “Are you sure you even want to see me?”

“Of course I do,” Saint laughs. “Preferably all of you, not just your head.”

There is another pause, then the Hunter rolls off the roof and drops down to land before him in his customary manner, at which Saint laughs again and slaps him heartily on the back.

“It is good to see all of you, Hunter. So, what brings you to me, today? There is something on your mind, maybe?”

“Well, I uh…I never thanked you for all your help with Eli or Uldren or whatever,” the Hunter replies, keeping his eyes on the fat birds waddling around on the carpet. “So, yeah. I just wanted to say thank you. And, uh. I owe you an apology, too. So. I’m sorry.”

“No thanks are necessary. I was happy to help,” Saint replies affably. “But I do not understand why you are apologizing.”

“I was kind of hoping you’d just say you accept and I wouldn’t have to do this,” the Hunter mutters, tugging anxiously at his gloves. “Ok. Uh. I’m sorry for being a shitty friend, is what it pretty much boils down to. I’ve been self-absorbed and taken you for granted and I—I dunno. Anyway, I’m sorry for all that.”

Saint tilts his helmet thoughtfully. “I do not think you have been bad friend. But if you will feel better, I accept your apology.”

“Oh, uh. Thank—thank you,” the Hunter says clumsily, finding himself strangely disappointed by this response, but not understanding why. “So hey, I was hoping maybe if you’re free tonight, we could take a patrol together. We always say we should, but I always manage to not be around to do it.”

“Tonight…” Saint repeats, hesitating.

“Oh, god damn it, it’s the Festival of the Lost,” the Hunter groans. “I forgot another thing I told you I’d go to, didn’t I. What did I just say? Shittiest friend ever.”

“No, no, you did not,” Saint reassures him. “Tonight will be fine. Yes, let us take patrol.”

“Oh. Ok, great,” the Hunter says, brightening again. “I’ll meet you at the west gate at 2100, then?”

“2100. I will see you then, Hunter.”

Despite his passable counterfeit of a cheerful goodbye, the Hunter departs his friend feeling worse than he had before. This doesn’t make sense, though. Now that Saint has accepted his apology, he should feel better. Instead, he feels flat and deflated, rather than relieved by this easy resolution, as if he’d wanted something more. But more of what? He has apologized and his friend has graciously accepted. Now things can go back to normal. He has done exactly what he was supposed to do, so why is his conscience still flagellating him like this?

He spends the better part of his time at the Tower being miserable about it, and can’t even soothe himself with a bowl of ramen in his lookout spot atop the hangar, because those are things he had shared with Eli, and they are now a source of pain to him. All his favorite things are now sources of pain, in fact. Even his beautiful jumpship, Solpiercer, is now tainted by the fact that he’d given it to Eli. Uldren had returned it without his knowledge, and he’d found the thing in his inventory by chance, when he’d been offloading some older equipment. He fights down a rash impulse to send it out to be salvaged for scrap and wanders into the Bazaar, hoping to run into Karja.

At a table on the far side of the square, near the New Monarchy gazebo thing, the Huntress is indeed visible. To the Hunter’s immediate chagrin, however, she is currently in the company of an exquisitely beautiful and exceedingly irritating Awoken Warlock named Tal Sula. The Hunter’s lip curls at the sight of the man’s monastically shaved head and immaculately draped robes. He would rather tongue-kiss a Hive ogre than listen to another lecture from him about the merits of thanatonautics, or the salutary spiritual effects of asceticism. Fortunately, evading notice is what Hunters do, and he manages to slip past his friend and her disagreeable associate without being seen.

He putters around the Black Armory for a while, idly inspecting the blank weapon frames till he grows self-conscious under the serenely patient eye of Ada-1, purchases a hand cannon frame to avoid seeming rude, and departs. The Drifter, as he expected, is not in residence at the moment, so he heads back up to the Courtyard, narrowly avoiding the sharp, silver-white gaze of Tal Sula the psychotic Warlock. Finally, he decides to brave the crowds and walk down to the west gate through Lady Jolder Park. He always liked to see the lanterns being lit, anyway.

As it turns out, the atmosphere down in the City feels appropriate and soothes his harassed mind. It is the Festival of the Lost, after all, and he is grieving a death. When the witches reawakened Uldren Sov in Eli’s head, the man he’d fallen in love with had died. The moment he’d looked into those eyes again in the Dreaming City, the Hunter had seen that his friend Eli was gone. His newborn soul consumed in the fire of resurrection, as if he’d never existed. He hadn’t even been given a chance to say goodbye.

Uldren had retained Eli’s memories, but there was little left of what had made him Eli. His naïve sweetness, his intense curiosity and almost childlike wonder about every new thing he experienced, his zealous moral integrity and passion for justice. And the things about him that were more personally dear to the Hunter, himself. Like his gentle way of asserting his will without seeming to do so, and the deep wells of strength he kept hidden behind his beautiful face and soft voice. These were all traits Uldren had shared, of course, but Eli was Uldren the way he had been in his youth, before war and politics and loss and suffering and madness and betrayal—the slings and arrows of ten millennia of life—honed him into the deadly blade that he is now. Despite the prince’s sharpness and coldness, he had loved him nearly as much as he’d loved Eli. But there is no contesting the fact that his heart rightfully belongs to Jolyon.

The Hunter tells himself he doesn’t grudge them that happiness. That this desolate loneliness is just part of being a Guardian. That his duty to the City and its people should be enough to fulfill him. But this is self-deception. The truth is that he feels hollow and incomplete. Adrift, with no one to call his own. No family, no lover—not even one person that belongs to him. Someone hands him a festival lantern and he sets it ablaze with Void light, watching it rise until he loses sight of it among the hundreds of others, floating like ethereal fireflies above the City streets. So many lights. So many lost. And his own heartache just a little sorrow among many.

“I used to try to count them,” Saint’s voice says beside him. “But there are too many. And counting them won’t bring them back.”

“Why do we do it? Why do we keep fighting a losing war?”

The Titan’s heavy hand comes down comfortingly on the Hunter’s shoulder. “Look around you. This is your City. They are who we fight for. The ones we can still save. And there are too many of them to count now, too. Because of you.”

“I didn’t do this,” the Hunter says, looking up at him. “You said you spent your fourteenth life fighting to make your City mine, but it’s not mine. This is the City you built. I just kept it safe till you came home.”

“Maybe we call it our City, then. Split the difference.”

“Deal,” the Hunter laughs. “You ready to go?”

The two walk to the west gate together, stopped many times along the way by elderly people who watched the walls go up and want to express their gratitude to Saint-14, gaggles of children who beg the massive warrior to let them all hang from his arms and see if they can pull them down (a favorite game among the in-the-know children of the City), and pretty young women who stand tip-toe to kiss him on the cheek of his helmet and then slip away smiling and blushing into the bustling crowd.

Outside the gate, they mount their Sparrows and ride along the dirt roads and rough terrain beyond the safety of the walls, keeping an eye out for movement among the trees, or any sign of enemies having passed through recently. At the fourth or fifth outpost, the Hunter calls halt, sensing something amiss. He can’t explain the tracker’s instinct to the Titan, but he doesn’t have to. Saint-14 is aware of the symbiotic dynamic between partners of different classes, and trusts his friend’s acumen without reserve.

The detachment of Fallen scavengers they surprise attempting to break into the supply depot meet their swift demise under a hail of barbed, gold-fletched arrows fired with impossible rapidity, and the iridescent shield of Void light that rends their armor without the slightest drag before it severs flesh and bone. In less than two minutes, the Hunter and the Titan stand victorious, not a single enemy left alive to repeat the tale.

“Looks like they were planning on using those charges to open it up,” the Hunter says, as Ghost scans the cargo doors. “Structure wasn’t breached. No need for a repair crew.”

“It is good we stopped them in time,” Saint replies, from where he is inspecting the crate full of explosives. “This much would have destroyed the building and everything inside.”

“I don’t know why they keep trying to get into these things. There’s no tech, no scrap. Nothing valuable to them.”

“Perhaps their intent was to destroy it. Or perhaps they are simply hungry.”

The Hunter shudders and turns away from the pile of chitin-plated bodies. “I hope that’s not the reason. I don’t even want to think about that.”

“Geppetto, alert ordnance disposal that we have a case of Class-IV explosives to be collected, and give them the outpost number,” Saint says to his Ghost. He pauses, listening, then turns to the Hunter. “They will send a crew, but we may be waiting for some time. Many unauthorized fireworks in the City on festival days.”

“I guess we’re waiting, then,” the Hunter replies, casting his eyes about. “I just need to get up somewhere higher. I can’t stand being out in the open on the ground.”

“And I cannot perch in the trees like a bird,” Saint muses, also looking around. “What would you suggest?”

“How about we compromise and sit on the roof, here. High up enough for me and sturdy enough for you.”

“Excellent thinking, Hunter. You see, we are very good team.”

“Hey, uh…Uldren told me you stayed with him,” the Hunter says, once they are seated as comfortably as they can be, on the steel-reinforced concrete roof of the supply depot. “While he was recovering from the memory transplant thing.”

“I did. He was unwell for quite some time. He would not have wanted you to see him that way.”

“I know, but I don’t understand why.”

“He asked me to stay because he was afraid to be alone. He said he knew he could trust me, because of the way you had spoken to him about me.”

“No, I mean I don’t understand why you did it. He had people there. You didn’t have to.”

“I told you I would be friend to him,” Saint says, turning to look at the Hunter. “You do not seem pleased.”

“It’s not that, I just—I don’t understand how you can be so… _good_ all the time.”

“Good? What do you mean?”

“A lot of things, I guess. For example, I don’t understand why you’re able to completely put your own feelings aside for the sake of someone else, when I am almost entirely incapable of doing that. It makes me feel like a piece of shit compared to you and it’s infuriating, sometimes.”

Saint tilts his helmet curiously. “This is very strange thing to be infuriated about.”

“I know it is!” the Hunter says, with an exasperated gesture. “I’m an irrational person and I fuck up and do things that don’t make sense and take my shit out on the wrong people. But you don’t. You’re fucking perfect.”

“What do you want, Hunter?” Saint laughs. “You want me to be angry with you?”

“Yes!” Unable to contain his agitation, the Hunter hops to his feet and paces about as he speaks. “I unloaded all my feelings about Uldren on you, and you listened and sympathized, even though Cayde was your friend and he killed him. Then Eli showed up and I put you in a completely unfair position with the Vanguard by telling you about him, but you never complained. And then after he left, I was so wrapped up in my own shit, that I never even bothered to thank you for all your help. You’re my best friend and I’ve spent the past year and a half treating you like shit. You should be angry! You should tell me I’m a selfish asshole and you won’t put up with it!”

“Hunter, I will never be angry with you about such things,” Saint says patiently. “It is not easy to make me angry. I hope you will not try.”

“That almost sounded like a threat,” the Hunter says, laughing uneasily.

“No. I only mean that to make me angry with you, you would have to do something so extreme that it would be contrary to your character. To who I believe you to be.”

“Oh,” the Hunter says, not quite understanding.

To his further confusion, Saint changes tracks. “Hunter, have you ever seen me without my helmet? Have you ever seen my face?”

“What does that have to do with—” he stops short, blinking. “Oh, shit. I haven’t. I’ve never seen your face.”

“Do you know why? The reason I never remove my helmet?”

“Uh…it’s not because you used to be an insane prince who everyone hates, is it?”

“No, it is not that,” Saint laughs. “It is because this, what you are looking at now, this is what I am to the people who believe in me. They know this helmet as my face. They know this armor as my body. It lets them think of me as a symbol, rather than a man. If they saw me as I am under all the armor, they might lose their faith in me, because underneath is not legend, or hero, or icon. It is just a man.”

“But you have to stop wearing the armor sometime, don’t you? You have to let someone see you.”

Saint looks away toward the looming city walls, rubbing his gloved hands together, then back up at him. “I want to. I want you to see me. But…I am afraid.”

The Hunter frowns. “Afraid of what? Of me?”

“I am afraid that if I let you see me as I really am, without the mask and the armor, you will lose faith in me. Or worse, that you will be afraid of what you see.”

“That’s—no. You’re my friend. I know you. And I mean, I see exos all the time. I’m not gonna freak out or anything.”

“You are not so good with metaphors, but that is alright,” Saint says, with a smile in his voice he cannot show on his face. “So long as you understand that I have been afraid to show you an important part of myself.”

“I think so. But I don’t really get why. There’s nothing under your armor that’ll change how I feel about you.”

“Eh…I think there may be. But I suppose there is only one way to find out.”

“Can I help?”

Saint rises to his feet and looks down at him. There is a tense beat of hesitation, then the Hunter reaches up and puts his hands on his friend’s helmet. Finding the release clips beneath the jaw, he unfastens it, and Saint lifts it off himself. The lights in his eyes and in the hollows below his cheekbones are the same pinkish lilac color as the strip of light on his helmet, and his curved, angular face plates are unpainted steel or titanium on a black frame. Some of them bear deep scratches, like scars. The cranium, forehead, and chin are reinforced, and the eye slots have an intimidating, leonine slant. Whoever made this body clearly intended it for combat, and it was expertly crafted. For a long moment, the Hunter stands gazing up at him in frank astonishment. He has known Saint-14 for several years, now, but it suddenly feels as if he’s meeting him for the first time.

“You do not look disgusted,” Saint observes. “Or afraid. This is good sign.”

The Hunter blinks and seems to shake himself. “What? How could anyone be disgusted by you, you’re fucking beautiful. Has that happened?”

“Not with anyone I would consider a friend. That kind of revulsion shows itself long before I would have let someone get so close to me. Organic people do not hide their feelings as well as they think.”

“But…you can’t blame regular humans for being a little bit afraid when they first meet you. Right? Especially if they’ve never seen an exo before.”

“I do not blame them, no. I am machine of war, made for killing, and I look like one. I understand the fear. But disgust I cannot excuse. That is to think of me as less than human. It is…product of an ugly heart.” Saint sighs deeply, gazing down at the helmet in his hands, then he sets it on the ground and looks back up at the Hunter, lightening his tone. “But those people are few. Most are simply curious about me, and I do not mind that.”

“You don’t have to do that for me,” the Hunter frowns.

“Do what?” 

“That thing where you put your shiny armor over the scars. You don’t have to do that. Not with me. In fact, I—I want you to stop doing it.”

“You think you can tell me what to do?” Saint asks, with mock grimness.

The Hunter swallows hard, half-terrified by his own boldness, but determined not to be deflected by jokes or platitudes this time. “Yeah, I do, when it’s for your own good. Because that’s how friends work. I think. Ghost and Karja are my only examples, and they tell me what to do all the time. The point is, you said you want me to see you, so you have to stop hiding from me. Ok?”

“You are right,” Saint replies with a rueful little chuckle. “I will try, but it is old habit. You will be patient, yes? And remind me?”

“Of course. But you have to be patient with my defense mechanisms, too. Not that you haven’t always been. Though I have no idea why.”

“Do you not,” Saint says in an undertone, almost as if to himself.

Something intangible in his voice or manner makes the Hunter’s pulse quicken, and he feels his neck and ears suddenly grow hot with the blood racing toward his face. Hoping to thwart his traitorous complexion, he turns away quickly and steps to the edge of the roof, pretending to survey the surrounding terrain.

“I wonder what’s keeping those bomb disposal guys,” he remarks, painfully aware how brittle and flat the words sound.

What in the Traveler’s name is wrong with him? Why can’t be just be normal? And why is his heart pounding like he’s been running a marathon? He doesn’t have anything to be this worked up about. He hears Saint’s footsteps and feels him come up to stand beside him, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the dark treeline, as if he’s afraid of what will happen if he looks at him.

“There is something that weighs on my mind, Hunter,” Saint says, in a lower tone than the Hunter has ever heard from his gregarious friend. “I promised Geppetto that the next time you and I were alone together, I would speak to you. I did not expect it to be so soon, but here we are. Will you hear me out?”

“Sure, you can talk to me about anything,” the Hunter says awkwardly, casting a sidelong glance at him. “What is it?”

“It is this. I do not keep only my face hidden from the world,” Saint answers slowly. “I hide much of who I am, as well, and for the same reasons. Partly from this habit and partly meaning to be a good friend to you, I have been silent about myself. It has cost me…a great deal of pain. Perhaps speaking of it will only cause more pain, but I do not believe so.”

“What pain? Speaking about what?” the Hunter prompts, already agitated and thus growing unfairly impatient with Saint’s roundabout way of approaching his point.

Unmoved by his friend’s restiveness, Saint pauses to take a deep breath. Or to seem to do so. The Hunter can’t tell if this is simulated or an actual function of his body.

“You have said that you are selfish, but I can be selfish, too,” Saint continues, after a moment. “In fact, I must be selfish now. I have done my best to be your friend through your troubles with the prince and Eli, but…I cannot do this again. I cannot be strong for you and dress your wounds, when I am so wounded myself.”

“But that’s what I meant, Saint,” the Hunter asserts, looking up at him with almost manic earnestness. “That’s why I apologized for being such a bad friend. I know you’ve been through hell and I put a huge burden on you without reciprocating, and I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again, I swear. I’m going to—”

“Please listen to me, Hunter,” Saint cuts him off, in the same calm, measured tone. “I am saying that I cannot watch you fall in love with another man again. The truth is that my heart has been yours since the day I met you. I love you, and I want you to love me. Only me. If this is selfish, then so be it. It is the truth of myself. And now you know it.”

The Hunter stares up at him, dumbstruck, unable to speak or move or even breathe. A thousand disjointed ideas flicker through his mind, but he can’t latch onto any single one, let alone form a coherent response.

“You can’t love me,” he blurts out, then feels incredibly stupid. “I didn’t—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I mean how can you love me? I can’t…believe it. I don’t understand it.”

“You must believe it, because it is true. But that does not mean you have to accept it.”

They are standing very close to each other and the Hunter’s heart is pounding in his throat. Impulsively, he reaches up and puts his hands on Saint’s face. Saint lays his hands on top of them and pulls them gently back down, holding them on his armored chest.

“I have told you that I love you, Hunter,” he says gravely. “I am not plaything. I will not be toyed with. If you do not love me, do not touch me as if you do.”

“I don’t deserve you,” the Hunter says, clearing his throat to conceal a tremor in his voice. “I’m a selfish asshole and I make extremely bad choices, and I hurt you and myself and Eli. I don’t know how you can forgive me for all of that, or why you would even want to—”

“Hush. There is nothing to forgive,” Saint interrupts, pulling him closer. “Tell me.”

The Hunter wavers, feeling weak and lightheaded.

“I…I love you,” he manages at last, just above a whisper.

Then the dam is burst and he falls into his friend’s arms, awash in a sensation of profound comfort and relief, as if he has been away from home a long time, and has finally returned, or has been living with some chronic pain that has been suddenly and miraculously alleviated. He has never kissed an exo before and has no idea how it works, but he presses his lips to Saint’s mouth plates anyway, and finds them surprisingly warm and mobile for being composed of some kind of metal. Saint lifts him up in his arms and the Hunter discovers that exos do, indeed, have tongues. Smoother and not entirely as soft as a human tongue, but similar enough to make his heart skip several beats when it caresses his.

“You actually breathe,” he says, drawing back to look up into his face. “I didn’t know that.”

“We do, but not to absorb oxygen,” Saint explains. “Exo bodies produce lot of heat sometimes. Breathing is good for cooling.”

“How much heat? And, uh…under what conditions, exactly?”

Saint laughs and squeezes him tighter. “Maybe I take you home and show you.”

“Yes,” the Hunter nods eagerly. “Please do that. My apartment, not the Tower. If that’s alright with you.”

“Of course. I can always embarrass you in front of your friends another time.”

“You think I’ll be embarrassed? You got another think coming, old man. I just want you all to myself right now.”

“Old man!” Saint repeats indignantly. “I could break you in half, you pup.”

“I’m counting on it,” the Hunter grins. “You, uh…want to put me down?”

Saint’s narrows his black lids over his eye lenses, as if considering this. “No.”

The Hunter laughs dubiously. “No?”

“No,” Saint repeats. “I have waited long time to hold you in my arms. Now that I have you, I do not want to stop.”

“Ok, but if you put me down, we can go back to my place and you can hold me…you know. Without all the armor in the way.”

“Ah, yes. Let us do that,” Saint says, lowering him gently to his feet. “But we must still wait for ordnance disposal to arrive.”

“God damn it, I forgot all about the bombs. They better hurry the fuck up.”

Saint reseats himself and replaces his helmet on his head, while the Hunter produces his sniper rifle and takes up a prone position beside him, scoping down the road for any sign of the belated ordnance unit. After a few minutes, he sighs and turns over onto his back, resting his head on Saint’s thigh. Saint has not moved since he sat down, and looks perfectly content to be exactly where is, doing exactly what he is doing.

“How can you be so patient all the time?” the Hunter asks, squinting up at him. “I get antsy when the water for my tea takes too long to boil.”

Saint looks down and strokes his cheek affectionately. “I think if you understood better, how long I have waited to be with you, you would understand how I can be patient with such small inconveniences.”

“When I have to wait a long time, I get more impatient, not less,” the Hunter muses. “Though, I guess three years is quite a while.”

“Three years,” Saint laughs. “That is nothing. Blink of an eye.”

“What do you mean? We’ve only known each other for three years. Or like, three and a half.”

“ _You_ have only known _me_ for three years. How long was it for you, between the day you brought me the Paradox, and when you opened the Gate for me?”

The Hunter dismisses his rifle and sits up. “Not long. Just a couple of days, while brother Vance hunted down your Light’s energy signature.”

“For me, it was more than two-hundred years,” Saint says.

“God, I am a fucking idiot. I keep forgetting how much time had to pass for you to catch up with me. Two-hundred years is…so long.”

“It is, even for me. Do you remember how I told you that I had fallen in love once, long time ago?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“You did not think about how long ago it was for me that I met you, or you may have realized that I was speaking of you. I have loved you since that day, two-hundred years ago, and I have never loved another.”

The Hunter blinks at him, open-mouthed. “You…since the…what?”

“You are very charming when you forget how to speak,” Saint laughs, pulling him in to press a kiss to his forehead. “I never believed in things like destiny, or love at first sight. Not until I met you. Then I understood. Because I knew the moment I saw you that I had found the missing part of myself. That I could certainly live without you, but I would never be whole again. And so I waited and hoped. The thought of seeing you once more gave me the strength to survive the Infinite Forest.”

The Hunter’s brow knits, and he looks away into the middle-distance. The idea of being loved by anyone with that kind of relentless devotion is entirely foreign to him. Let alone someone so absolutely above him. He feels crushed by the weight of it, but at the same time, sustained and fortified by it. As if it somehow making him more than he would be, otherwise. Can two people really be halves that fit together to create a whole that is more than the sum of its parts?

He looks up at his friend suddenly, as a shock races up his spine. The vision he saw in the Corridors of Time. Saint-14, standing at his tomb, speaking his eulogy. When he saw it, he had assumed the image had been shown to him for the sake of tormenting him with his death and the ultimate futility of his life, or whatever kind of mindfuckery the Vex get off on. But whether it was meant to be or not, this vision was no prophecy of doom. It had shown him the man who would be with him to the end. His reason to keep fighting. His purpose. His home. The one he could call his own.

If he had only understood it then, he would have known where his heart would ultimately be bestowed, and Saint would have been spared the pain of carrying him through his abortive relationship with Eli. They would all have been spared. But he’d been blinded by his ruinous love for the beautiful Awoken prince, and failed to see the precious gift that fate had already freely given. The love of a man worthy of the love of all men.

He realizes with a heavy pang of regret, that he had also failed utterly to see it in Saint’s actions or hear it in his words, though it was shown so clearly in everything he said and did. Enough so that even Karja and Ghost saw it, and were moved to intervene with him on his friend’s behalf.

“What is it, Hunter? What is wrong?” Saint asks, his resonant voice softened with concern.

The Hunter shakes his head slowly. “I’m just…so fucking stupid. I can’t even explain the depth of my own stupidity to you, because I’m too stupid to comprehend it myself.”

“Nonsense. You are…maybe little dense sometimes, but you are not stupid.”

“No, I am. Trust me. I respond really well to direct orders, though, so from now on, just tell me what to do to make you happy, and I’ll do it. That way I won’t fuck up and ruin everything.”

“You have already made me happy,” Saint says, taking his hand and kissing it. “Only keep loving me. That is all I want.”

“You want to have sex, too, though…right?”

Saint laughs aloud. “I would like that, yes.”

“Oh, thank the sky,” the Hunter says, with a relieved exhalation. “I think if we don’t fuck soon, I might need medical attention. Where the hell are those bomb squad guys? Do they even know how urgent this is?”

In the pristine opulence of a high tower, far above the Dreaming City, Jolyon Till sits on a white stone bench, watching the Oracle Engine spin in slow, rhythmic arcs. He jumps to his feet as the portal opens and Uldren steps through. His face is pale and drawn, exhausted from another of these protracted conversations with his sister, and he leans heavily on his friend as they leave the tower together. Inside his unnecessarily luxurious suite of rooms, he drops his cloak on the floor and falls facedown into bed. Jolyon picks it up and hangs it over a high-backed chair, then sits on the bed beside him.

“Bad one?” he asks, speaking in their native tongue.

“Worse than all the others together,” Uldren sighs. “But hopefully the last.”

“She has given her consent, then?”

“She has. She always intended to. But she had to make me pay for it in humiliation and…needling my pain.”

“When will you inform the Vanguard Commander?”

“When I have decided that I really will do it, I suppose.”

“You will,” Jolyon smiles. “Who else will put all of those arrogant Hunters in their places?”

“Fortunately for me, I am far more arrogant than they are. But it would be easier for them to accept me if I had not killed their previous Vanguard.”

“If you had not, there would be no reason for them to accept you. Everyone knew the terms of his succession and their commander named you himself, so that is the end of it.”

“At least there will be some time before I have to face them. Before I have to see him again.”

Jolyon’s brow furrows. “I don’t understand why you ended things with him that way.”

“He isn’t like us. He needs someone who will make him the only idol of their heart, and worship him with singular devotion. I could never give that to him. Letting him go was the best thing I knew how to do for him.”

“Don’t you love him?”

“I do. I do love him.” Uldren’s voice cracks with emotion as tears start in his eyes. He rolls onto his side, curling up self-protectively, and Jolyon lies down behind him and wraps his arms around him. “It nearly killed me to leave him that way, Jol. Mara mocked me for it. Called me weak. And I am weak. My heart is broken over a stupid lightbearer and I am a fool for my pains.”

“It doesn’t have to be broken,” Jolyon says soothingly. “You can call him back to you. We can make it work.”

“No. We can’t. He will never be reconciled to the idea of sharing my love with you. And…there is someone else who loves him. Someone who will give him everything he needs, the way I never could. He will discover this love sooner or later and he will forget me.”

“My love, I doubt there is anyone who could forget you. And if your Hunter could, then he never deserved you in the first place.”

“It was fate, did you know that?” Uldren says, turning over to look at him. “He and I. It was our fate to break each other’s hearts.”

“What do you mean, fate? You don’t believe in fate.”

“You are my true love, Jol, but the Hunter was my first love. He was my first…anything. I joked to him once that I was a virgin until him. Had I only known how true it was.”

Jolyon frowns. “This must be more of your chronological dissociation.”

“No, it isn’t. You know I had long ago forgotten almost everything about my life and myself before the awakening. Whatever Mara put into that enchantment to restore my memory restored all of it. Everything. All the way back to my childhood on Earth. Including the first man I ever loved.”

“You’re saying that you and the Hunter were…”

“We were human, together. During the Collapse. He was an Army Intelligence officer from the North American Empire. I was a nineteen-year-old boy living in a city in Old Russia, where he was stationed.”

“But how is this possible?”

Uldren shrugs. “The chances of this world are many and strange.”

“I suppose that’s almost an answer. What happened?”

“I loved him and he broke my heart,” Uldren says softly, gazing away into the middle distance. “Would you like to know his name? If you haven’t guessed already.”

“Tell me.”

“His name was Eli.”

Jolyon opens his mouth, then sits back, taking a moment to collect his thoughts. “You fell in love with your former lover, thousands of years later, after you both died and returned with no memory…and you even named yourself after him?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know? Have you told him?”

“No, of course not. I had to pretend to be indifferent just so he would let me go. If I had told him that…he might still be here.”

“As I have said he should be.”

Uldren shakes his head. “I’ve been talking poetry. In reality, there’s no such thing as fate. We fell for each other once, and those same things attracted us to each other when we met again. What happened between us after I came back was unresolved business from our first lives.”

“That is foolishness and you know it. Why are you so afraid to love him? What are you not telling me?”

“I am not afraid to love him, I am afraid to let him love me. Even if he would learn to live with us the way we are, I couldn’t let him. I don’t want to break his heart again.”

“You don’t have to. You can choose to—”

“But I can’t. I am telling you that I have no choice in the matter. Not anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that my time with the Vanguard may be very brief. I am to play a pivotal role in this war with the Darkness, but…it will not be as one who survives to enjoy the victory.”

Jolyon takes his hand and presses it to his lips, his brilliant blue eyes kindling with fierce light. “If we are to die, so be it. I am ready.”

“No, Jol. Don’t talk like that. I won’t let you—”

“No, Uldren, you will let me. I will speak now, and you will listen. When you were out of your mind and didn’t remember me, that was the most painful experience of my life. When you died, I died with you. My body just kept going on as if it were alive. I am not saying it will be my honor to die by your side, or any of that melodramatic, virtuous nonsense. I am saying that I will not live without you again. I will not. If you die, I die with you. That is the end of it.”

“You really are the most stubborn, insufferable—fine,” Uldren says, crossing his arms. “We’ll die together, if you insist on it, but I’d much rather you stay alive and build monuments to commemorate my greatness, like a proper grieving lover.”

“They’ll build monuments to you no matter what. At least if I go with you, they’ll have to include me as a footnote in your glorious history.”

“Yes, as my close friend and devoted retainer,” Uldren says bitterly. “You know what, I’m going to marry you. Then they’ll have to acknowledge what we were to one another, whether you produced my heirs or not.”

“I see. Do I have any say in this?”

“No.”

“Very well then, I accept. But I hope you don’t really plan on producing heirs with me. I have no intention of ruining my figure.”

“Jol, are you afraid to die?”

“Not at all. Why do you ask?”

“Because we have lived a very long time. We have suffered so much. I am tired of suffering. I’m not angry with the injustice of the universe, or anything. That’s a young man’s folly. I am simply…tired of living. You’re nearly as old as me, so I wondered if you ever felt the same.”

“I am not anywhere near as old as you,” Jolyon scoffs. “You knew my parents before I was born.”

“And I knew their parents before they were born. But when one gets to be our ages, those differences shrink to insignificance.”

“Insignificant or not, you have a lot more white hair than I do.”

“I don’t know where this even came from,” Uldren says irritably, pinching a black and white lock between his thumb and forefinger to inspect it. “I was jet-black when I was shot down on Mars. It seems to have happened all in a year.”

“I think it’s beautiful. But Uldren…are you going to be alright?”

Uldren looks up at him and smiles, and it is almost warm and human. “As long as I have you, I will be.”

“You will always have me.” Jolyon leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, then his lips. “I will be with you to the end.”

“You have no choice, now. You already agreed to marry me. Why aren’t you undressed? I want to look at your beautiful body while I tell you how we’re going to die.”

“Alright, but you know the rules. If you order me to take off my clothes, you have to let me fuck you.”

“I absolutely order you to take them off.”

“I am the prince’s humble servant,” Jolyon grins, giving a theatrical bow as he rises from the bed.

Several hours later, Jolyon lies deep in much-needed sleep, having been unprepared for his lover’s newly enhanced strength and stamina, and finally being forced to beg reprieve to let his non-Guardian body rest and recover. The lightbearing author of his state of exhaustion is reclining in the steaming water of his oversized bath tub, staring at the intricate patterns in the white stone pillars that support the vaulted ceiling. Crystalline growth arrays, smoothed and polished out of most flat surfaces, but still visible at the edges of the massive slabs of stone. Proof that this city was grown, not built. Raised into existence by the will of the one he calls sister, though only the two of them have known since the awakening how close or distant that kinship really is.

He wonders if she felt herself losing Mara Sov, as the superior being took over the consciousness, the way he feels himself losing Eli, as Uldren’s far older and stronger mind lays claim to the soul that had been his own. But he must find a way keep the other alive in Uldren’s mind. For young and naïve though he was, Eli was the better man. He was the man Uldren would have been, had he not been shaped in the forge of his sister’s overpowering will. A will that shapes worlds. The will of a god.

But a day will come when he will be the voice of another god. A god far more powerful than she. And he will be made worthy to be so not by her, but by the love of the Hunter and the wisdom of the Saint, and the strength of the Rachis, the supporting axis upon which he has always depended. But he must not forget the devotion of the Ghost. His dear Lisianthus, named for a little purple flower in Earth’s green fields, whose existence binds him to the Light.

As if these thoughts have summoned him, he hears a whirring sound and looks up to see his diminutive friend gliding in through the open window. He seems so at home in this place, with his glittering Reef-made shell, amidst all the beauty of the queen’s dearest city. Uldren’s heart sinks as he observes the Ghost’s hesitation to approach him.

“Hello, Lis,” he says, putting as much of Eli’s youthful animation into his voice as he can. “I was wondering when you’d come back.”

“Hello, Prince Uldren,” Lis replies warily. “I have come back because you are my Guardian, and it is not wise for us to be apart for too long.”

Uldren sighs. “Lis…when I said I wasn’t a Guardian and you weren’t my Ghost, and cursed the Traveler and all lightbearers, my mind was in a million pieces. I was experiencing every horrible, painful memory of Uldren’s life all at once. I wasn’t even sure what was real.”

“I understand. Still, you should know that you do not have to be a Guardian, if you do not wish to be. There are lightbearers who are not. But whatever you choose to do, I will never leave you. If you want to be rid of me, you will have to destroy me.”

“You can’t think that I want to be rid of you. You don’t think that. Do you?”

“Prince Uldren, you were angry with me, and you had every right to be. You cursed me bitterly for being part of this plot to let you die so that you would be reborn. Though I was not aware of it, I am partly to blame. I should have been more cautious about gifts given in seeming kindness. I should not place so much faith in the goodness of others. This is the price I am paying for my foolishness.”

“Your faith in the goodness of others is beautiful, Lis. I would never have you change that. My sister deceived you, yes, but she is a power beyond either of our reckoning. She would have accomplished her design with or without you.”

“Maybe. But the fact remains that I was aware the Hunter knew you before you died, and I never told you. If I had, you would have been better prepared to make such a momentous decision.”

Uldren’s brow furrows and he looks down at his hands in the clear water. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I believed in the doctrine we are all given, that Guardians should not know their past lives, nor try to live as the person they were before, but now I find myself questioning the very source. I know that a general principle, applied blindly to every situation is an absurdity, often amounting to monstrous cruelty. By following my dogma rather than my heart, I have been party to that cruelty. I have wounded the one I love above all others, and I have lost him.”

“Perhaps…you will grow to love me,” Uldren says quietly, failing to conceal the tremor in his voice.

Lis turns his lens to look him full in the face. “Do you love me, Prince Uldren?”

“Of course I love you. How can you even ask me that? I love you more than I can tell you. More than I love the Hunter, or even Jolyon. You are my heart, Lis. You are my soul.”

“Oh, no—please do not cry,” Lis says, flitting urgently about, as if he might be able to do something to stop the heavy tears that are rolling down his Guardian’s beautiful face, and splashing into his bath. “I did not intend to be unkind. Only to assess where our relationship stands, since you are no longer…you.”

“I am still me,” Uldren sniffles. “I’m not Eli anymore, but I lived his life. His memories are mine. Nothing has changed but that I have all of my old memory back, too, and I am not quite the same person I was when it was all taken away.”

Lis lowers his lens contritely. “I am sorry, Prince Uldren. I have been thinking of you and my Guardian as separate people, but that is unjust of me. You were chosen because of who you were in life. So, I suppose Eli was really just a part of you, and you are the whole you.”

“That is true,” Uldren says, smiling through his tears. “Eli isn’t gone, he was just…reintegrated into my whole self. You must promise not to let me forget him. To be perfectly honest, I liked him better than I like this version of me.”

“I do not know this version of you yet, but I have heard many stories of your strength and courage, and love for your people. And if the Hunter and Jolyon Till love you, then you must be quite a remarkable man.”

“Lis…I have to tell you something,” Uldren says, coming to the side of the bath and resting his elbows on the rim. “I had a dream. A very strange, vivid dream. In it, an old man took me to the top of the Tower ruins and spoke to me of the Light and the Darkness, and many things I did not fully understand. But it was made clear to me that in some time to come, I will play a vital role in this war with the Darkness. But in doing so…I will die. My final death.”

Lis floats before him, stricken and shuddering. “No. No, I do not believe it. Dreams are idle fancies of the subconscious. They do not mean—”

“Not this one, Lis. This was the vision of a true seer. I know the difference. I…I thought it best to tell you as soon as possible, so that you can decide if you want to—”

“Do not finish that sentence, Guardian,” Lis interrupts fiercely. “I will never leave you. Never. Whatever fate is in store for you is my fate, also. I am not afraid.”

“I know,” Uldren says, another tear escaping his fiery-gold eye. “And I knew what your answer would be. But I had to give you the option. After everything you’ve done for me, the idea that you might die just because you chose me for your Guardian breaks my heart.”

“Not because of you. With you, because I choose to. Because I love you. Now, was there anything else in your dream that could be important?”

“There was. The man who spoke to me specifically instructed me to tell you about the dream. And he told me to say some words to you, just as he said them to me. He repeated them to be sure I remembered.”

Lis tilts his shell curiously. “That is strange. What were the words?”

“He said I should tell you—” Uldren clears his throat and switches to his native tongue, which was how the man spoke to him in the dream, using the strong, female pronoun. “She is the flame and I am the light. She is the breath and I am the voice. She is the word…and I am the speaker.”


End file.
